Southfarthing Tales
by Feather Silverymoon
Summary: Bilbo has left the Shire and left Frodo in charge of Bag End. Frodo discovers after Bilbo is gone that there's he's inherited more than just a curious ring. During his decline, Bilbo spent off most of Bag End's assets, including all of the 'dragon's gold'
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Sam Loves Frodo, Frodo Loves Sam  
**Author:** Feather Silver  
**Pairing:** Frodo/Sam  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warnings:** Slash, filthy language, gratuitous sex  
**Summary: **This is the beginning of Southfarthing tales. Part 1 occurs six months after Bilbo left the Shire. Sam readies his roses for the Lithe day competition at By-water while Frodo learns about his duties as Master of Bag End.

Samwise, as usual, woke first. Quietly, he slipped a sleepy arm off his chest, then stepped noisily onto the floor. Frodo moaned some mysterious nonsense then balled up peevishly in the empty covers. Sam grinned, then padded softly through the smial on his way to the jakes.

Wan light eased through the clean curtains of the kitchen. After he ate, Samwise laid out some simple cold fare with a steaming cup of tea on a well-used tray. With the tray balanced on one arm, he peered into the Best Bedroom's open door. Frodo hadn't moved. Sam stood there watching him sleep awhile, before downing the tea and buttery biscuits himself.

After finishing up in the kitchen, Sam winced at the remaining mountain of biscuits. He decided to run them over to his father, with a healthy bit of the fresh butter he'd bought last market day. Due to the damp weather, Gaffer Gamgee was down with lumbago, which meant his temper, like his back, was tender. Sam stepped outside into a blush of sunrise. Humidity swirled in foggy patches out across the wet grass. Sam looked at the moisture clinging to the brushy fur of his feet, then ran back inside the smial. When he started out again, a bottle of sweet Tookish brandy was clutched tightly beneath one arm.

He got back well before Frodo was out of bed. Sam thought about waking him, decided against it. Instead, he laid out more food where Frodo could easily find it in the kitchen. It didn't matter. Frodo frequently helped himself to whatever appealed in the pantry before settling down for fresh tea at the table. This was most likely why Frodo never gained any real weight, or aged much, or did anything Sam found familiar outside of Bag End.

A while later sounds of ardent scrambling poured out of the pantry and down the long hall. Sam listened for a while as satisfaction whickered across the calm surface of his mind. Everything was right, everyone was happy. Sam could get on with his day.

The roses were somewhat smaller than he anticipated. After two seasons of stenting violet _Bywater Passions_, to flaming sunset _Hobbiton Fancies_, Sam was nearly ready to give up. The color blend was far better than he expected. Streaks of feathery crimson swept out from the russet floral tube, growing wider as they circled the pith. However, the corolla still wasn't as round, or deep as he wished, and the spicy scent could be stronger.

Sam's goal had been to create a lavish new rose to enter in the Lithe Day competition at Bywater. As he looked at the slightly stunted bloom in his hand, he wondered whether he could get away with entering it in the miniature's category. A favorite among Buckland's somewhat shorter residents, miniatures commanded hefty sums. However, Sam had imagined something far grander for _Bag End's Elegance_. This little rose, although lovely, was simply too small.

"It's beautiful." Frodo said as he wandered into the front garden. Sam ducked his head to hide a smirk. Perhaps _Bag End's Elegance_ was merely trying to reflect the stature of its Bucklander master. Sam carefully snipped one of the buds, then handed it to Frodo.

"Stand there a moment," Sam said as he backed up a pace. Frodo did as he was asked.

Sam bent, twisted, and squinted his eyes. He tried standing on tiptoe, then squatting down low. Frodo looked on with amusement as Sam's gestures grew more frantic. After a while, he stopped and shook his head sadly. "S'not going to work."

"What?" Frodo rubbed one of petals across his wrist, then sniffed. "You'll get some amazing soap from these, I'd wager."

"Naw. I was lookin' to see what it looked like bein' held by someone short. See, I've an idea…"

Frodo threw the rose at Sam's chest.

"Getting above ourselves again, Sam?" a curled, feminine voice said from behind him. Sam turned to see Lobelia Sackville Baggins leaning on the front gate. She met Sam's gaze, then switched her skirts at him somewhat menacingly. Seeing this, Frodo quickly adjusted his own posture.

"Oh, Mistress, I didn't see you standing there!" Sam said with a well-practiced, submissive squeak.

"Good morning, Cousin Lobelia. What brings you to Bag End this fine, sunny day?" Frodo said with withering clarity.

The older woman frowned, sensing the slight. Her hands retreated to her parasol and grew tight with impatience. Sam opened the gate. Lobelia drew herself up proudly, smoothed her generous skirts, and then led herself, parasol first, into the immaculately kept front garden. Her eyes darted keenly from one Hobbit to the other until coming to rest on Frodo. "I wish to see the hybrid Sam's been working on."

Sam quickly snipped her a fresh bloom, then scuttled back. Lobelia, well practiced at the art of divining true quality from failure, scrutinized the diminutive rose for long moments. Sam watched her intensely.

"Is this a miniature? It's hard to tell," she declared.

"Yes Mistress!" Sam said brightly. "It most certainly is!"

Lobelia snorted. "Figures. All this land and you fret about improving miniatures. I take it you're entering this at the fair in Buckland?"

"Of course he is," said Frodo.

"Of course I am," said Sam, overjoyed.

"What are you naming it then?"

"_Bag End's Elegance_." Sam was nearly bouncing on his toes.

"A good name for such a puny thing," Lobelia smiled.

Frodo, newly puffed from the authority laid upon him by his Uncle's recent departure, said, "And I suppose _you_ have something of your own to enter?"

Lobelia picked up her chin. "I do. A rather…full _Hobbiton's Pride_. Miniatures seldom take the prize, do they now?"

"'Tis true enough," said Sam. "And yours is all that glorious yellow and gold, like what's found closer to Buckland. The Maggot's, aye, they favor it so."

"Farmer _Maggot_ has roses?" Lobelia was shocked. "I had no idea such…extravagances were in the purview of such…simple folk."

Sam shuffled his feet while keeping a wary eye on the parasol that sometimes doubled as a scourge. "Oh, Mistress, they ain't nothin' like your own," he said soothingly. "My Gaffer says there's summat positively odd about a Rose near the size of a pie plate. I wouldn't set to worry on it, much. We all know'd them Bucklander's bear a queer preference for extremes. Aye, the like 'ent fittin' for Hobbiton. They are…" Sam grappled mightily for a word, "…entirely _boorish_ in character."

Lobelia wasn't so sure. "Surely, you're mistaken lad?"

"Oh, I'm sure Mistress Lobelia. My Gaffer said he heard up the 'Dragon. The Maggot's been using that mud from the banks o' the Brandywine to nurse them roses with. Aye, 'tis a bit of the old forest, unnatural like, that's seeped itself in the blooms -or so they says."

Frodo shrugged. "Then it must be so."

Lobelia nodded. "I quite agree." She regarded the rose in her hands a bit sadly. "Perhaps this year _is_ one for extremes." Lobelia picked up her head, gray eyes flashing boldly. "Don't let that make you think you've an edge on me, Frodo Baggins. There's a goodly part of the growing season left."

Without waiting for an answer, Lobelia approached the gate. Sam opened it for her. Both he and Frodo watched as she snapped open the parasol, which instantly bathed her in gaudy crimson light. With an indelicate hitch of her skirts, Lobelia quick stepped her way towards the Green Dragon, stopping now and then to take a generous sniff of Sam's rose.

Twilight settled over the shire, draping the broad, golden fields with warm violet. Sam sat atop a scraggy knoll near the border of the garden, sucking in deep draughts of Longbottom leaf. Frodo leaned against his shoulder, yawning gently. The two passed the pipe back and forth, smoking, and thinking quietly, as the day wound down to a velvety close.

"How long's it been?" Frodo said. "What…just over six months now?"

"About." Sam reached up and stroked the mass of dark curls nested warmly against his chest.

"What a bother. What a tiresome, ugly bother. I had no idea Uncle spent so much time keeping all and sundry straight. The accounts, silly disputes, social appearances - and despite all that, there's more than one who thought him quite daft."

"Or wished for his treasure," Sam chuckled. "Bushels and heaps of dragon gold…"

"More like a hoard of notes and bills." A ripple of concern knotted Frodo's brow. "And now that my standing has increased, there's speculation about my living arrangements…"

"Meanin' there's more than one lass who's set her cap on Bag-End."

Frodo heard the unspoken concern. He reached back and grasped Sam's arm. "I've heard quite enough flattery for a lifetime."

This relaxed Sam, who commenced to mutter and draw on the pipe. After a healthy bit of time wandering around in his own thoughts, Sam said, "Mr. Bilbo never spoke with you 'bout what to expect?"

"No. I thought he led a charmed existence. It never occurred to me that he _had _any real authority. I don't know what I thought…perhaps that things were presented to him because of his knowledge, and that he resolved situations with simple kindness?"

"That's what he wanted you to think. He didn't fancy his' self a laird. Hobbiton hasn't had a fittin' laird since Bag-End were first pulled away from the hill. Back when Mr. Bilbo set to travellin', the Sackville-Baggins' tried a turn at it. Everyone hated 'em, and that's flat. None's knowin' what to make of you yet."

"I don't know what to make of myself," Frodo said honestly.

"Well I do." Sam leaned warmly against his shoulder. "An' I think yer fine as you are."

And this seemed to comfort Frodo, who was content to let the matter drop. Sam watched him for a while, saw Frodo's eyes drift out towards the horizon, and knew he was wondering what lay beyond the Shire's edge. A little twinge of sadness flitted through Sam. One day, Frodo would do as his Uncle had done and leave the Shire behind. When that time came, and it would, for he could feel it building in Frodo even now, the best part of Sam would follow.

"Lobelia's a trick." Frodo observed drowsily. "What motivates her to be so…difficult, at times? I find it amazing that she's actually a blood relation."

Sam chuckled, and then wove his toes in the long grass. "I don't." He passed the pipe back to Frodo.

"What? Surely, you're joking." Frodo scrunched his back against Sam's sturdy bulk, kicked one knee up over the other, then sucked heavily on the pipe. Shimmery pinpoints of silver winked over the deepening horizon. Frodo clacked his jaw, sending smoke rings whirling into the sky. Sam watched them go, wondering if they touched the stars?

"I'm nothing like Lobelia," Frodo said. "How can you _bear_ to make that comparison, Samwise Gamgee?"

"I see what I see." Sam took a deep breath. When Frodo nudged him with the pipe, Sam let him keep it. "The Valar blessed us well."

"Riddles." Frodo knotted his brow. "Reminds me of Uncle. I do hope he's allright."

"He is," Sam said, and then leaned a fraction closer to Frodo. "You'd know."

Frodo murmured something that sounded like the beginnings of a song. His voice was clear and bright in the crisp night air, and carried far out over the fields. Sam guessed it was Elvish from the way the notes trilled and wandered into pitches no hobbit but he would find appealing. A night peeper struck up a chorus with the swirling, breathy sighs that sounded so much sadder than a lament. But it wasn't a lament; this was Frodo's way of blessing the unseen path of his Uncle, who wandered somewhere far out over the hills. Sam noticed sleepy marsh hens and tiny finches, normally so shy this time of the evening, stirring openly the longer Frodo went on. Crickets and fat buzz flies clicked and hummed, and all around the breeze picked lazy flutters from fields flushed golden in the dying light. At the center of it all sat Frodo, whispering so softly it seemed the song was meant only for him. Yet, all creation seemed to hear and answer, and send the blessing on, weaving a path out past the sinking sun and on to the wanderer, who must surely hear it, and smile.

The song ended, and Frodo sat thinking for while, his teeth gripping the long white stem of the pipe. After a while, he said "Go on with your riddle."

"Let me fix us some dinner, first."

When Frodo made to squirm in protest, Sam draped a heavy arm across his chest. "It's damp out. Lets get a bite, then I'll bank up the fire in the parlor, aye?"

Sam rolled to his knees. Taking the hint, Frodo steadied the pipe between his teeth, and let Sam pull him to his feet.

The smial had settled down for the night, the fire in the parlor gone cold. Books and pens and dishes and clothes were tucked away, waiting for tomorrow. In the Best Bedroom, Frodo sat astride Samwise's broad back, kneading slowly, listening for a telltale grunt of approval. A rather large pop startled him. Samwise shifted pleasantly, growled out healthy burp, then reached over to the bed stand for his mug. He brought the ale to his lips then sucked a quarter of it down in one noisy gulp. Frodo watched, fascinated, until Sam expelled more excess air from his stomach in grating, creaky explosions. Afterwards, Sam wriggled pleasantly atop the spread.

"Don't. You filthy, filthy beast, " Frodo warned.

"Too late." A grinding wheeze slid out from just behind Frodo's comfortable perch. ""Tis a testament to the quality of back rub. All me innards are relaxed, just so."

Frodo thought to extract vengeance an then realized he had nothing to contribute. Sam propped his head on his hands, and grunted.

"So tell me your riddle," Frodo said, kneading a bit rougher than before.

"Get me another ale."

Frodo twisted his fist into a knot, jammed it just below Sam's shoulder.

"Oh…bleedin' stars!" Sam arched up. A loud pop sounded beneath Frodo's hand. Rolling his head around deliciously, Sam said, "I think yer onto something w' that."

Frodo drummed his fists against Sam's ribs. "Out…OUT with it."

"Well if you're fixed on burpin' me like some bairn…right, right…half a sec," Sam gathered himself together, eased Frodo to one side, and sat up. "First, I'll not sully our bed with Lobelia's doing's. But I will tell you this…"

"Will you now?"

Sam frowned, scratched at his face, then said, "And ain't that the thing you two have in common? No patience. Not a whit between you for qualities sake. But that ain't what I'm getting' at. Yer both wild like that. To be 'plain said' as befits yer fancy o' late, she's on her own, whereas you ain't, and never will be. Otho and her, 'tis not a proper fit, for reasons I ain't inclined to share now, and that's the end of that. Just you know you've _everything_ Lobelia ain't never had, an' _won't_. You turn it 'round, I can't says you wouldn't match her, blow for blow." He considered his words for a moment, then added, "Twice over, more like, for you'd never get shut o' it 'til ye'd had 'er beggin' mercy. Aye, and 'prolly not then, niether." Sam shivered a little. "The both of you together could likely finish off the greatest, biggest, bloodiest Orc there ever were by just bitchin' it dead."

"Samwise Gamgee! You are baiting me!"

Sam belched laughter as his whole face unwound with delight. "Oh, but I love you so, me dear. Every inch of yer blessed self is the light o' me days." He reached over to the bed stand and picked up the mug. "'An I'd not have that fire away from me, or tame it out o' fear. 'Tis enough, what I have, and more than I ever could' a dreamed to hold. 'An yer knowing that every bit of me there is, rests easy where ever you choose. Aye, I choose you, m'dear, an all that you are. " Sam drained the rest of his ale, then raised himself up over the swirl of covers. He slowly rolled his head, easing out the last little cricks, stretching the thick swath of muscle bunched between his throat and shoulders, down to the tight cleft wedged between his breasts. He inhaled, spread wide his heavy arms, then arched back into a cloud of pillows. Candlelight quavered over the rough profile of Sam's belly, teased at the powerful swell of his hips. As he moved, the sheet rippled lazily across his massive frame, drawing back to the paler flesh above his thighs.

Frodo shook curls off his face, and watched Sam, who waited so patiently, mellow green gold flecks dancing in his eyes. Frodo knew he would wait there forever if he wished, never loosing that quiet, unconditional love. The mouth that greeted his was welcoming, instantly alive, filled with quicksilver and treacle beneath a sure, knowing heat.

Frodo felt Sam shift, then slide under his weight. Sam reached back and locked his hands on the headboard, grinning mischief. He was up for a bit of turnabout again, as he sometimes was. Bothering Lobelia had left him in a daring mood he'd kept to himself for the better part of the day. Frodo raised his eyebrows and cocked his head with a grin of his own.

"Are we cheeky, Mr. Gamgee?" Frodo said as hips shimmied off the cool linen, leaving a warm, naked length pressed up against his belly. Sam nodded and kissed his nose. "You've been a clever lad today, what with your extraordinary roses and considered observations concerning my cousin's character. Well done." Frodo's voice dipped into the low, upper-class drawl that never failed to achieve a singular effect on the body beneath him. Sam's grin became a giggle.

With a crooked smile Frodo pressed down onto the flesh beneath him, and felt the jump of muscle spread all through Sam's bones. Frodo bent down and dragged his head across the peaks of Sam's chest, trailing soft curls and wet kisses from the arch of one slope to the other, listening for the tell-tale gasp that would tell him when to bear down harder. Sam rolled, bit at his lips until he could hold back the moan no longer. Frodo circled his tongue around a point, and bit. Sam, bless him, was nothing if predictable.

After years of hiding and hurried lovemaking behind and under every concealing obstacle the two could find, they could finally take their time. A hush had come over the smial in the months since Bilbo's departure. During that time the two had gone further than either dared; even to the point of taking the best bedroom for themselves. More than anything else, this told Sam that Frodo had accepted that Bilbo was truly gone. Sad as this was, it allowed their relationship a greater degree of independence, one that was as close to acceptable as Sam thought it could be. For the first time in their lives together, they were paired - if only in private. It was more than Sam could have ever hoped for, although he wished it had come about some other way. Outside the smial things would always be different. Sam loved Frodo, and Frodo loved Sam, but the rest of the Shire would never accommodate them. For now, it didn't matter. With luck, it never would.

And Frodo seemed to catch Sam's thoughts as he smiled down upon him. For long moments the rush of need damped down to smolder as the two looked lovingly into each other's eyes, affirming the trust and depth of their bond. Sam would be with Frodo for as long as he would have him. Frodo couldn't imagine a world without Sam. Both silently agreed, for the thousandth time since the smial became their own, that they were paired for life.

The two locked into a long, heartfelt kiss, as the candlelight flickered over their heads. In that instant there was not a secret between them, not a desire unanswered. Sam's strong, handsome face beheld the lovely shadows flickering across his mate's pale, smooth brow, then chased each away with a whisper. Frodo looked to Sam, and knew fear would forever be a memory so long as that quiet, sure presence protected him. In the sudden fall of bliss, need sparked, then fanned into a blaze between them.

Sam wrapped heavy thighs around the slender waist above him, and slowly began to rock. Frodo answered with a comfortable rhythm of his own. The soft, warm fur of Sam's belly grazed against his, along with a hard, demanding heat. Frodo's eyes filled with a silky plea. Sam arched back, bore down with his legs, and then rubbed his heels against the backs of Frodo's calves. Sam smiled, and Frodo allowed his need to soar.

Sam's arms bulged with effort as he fought to keep his grip on the headboard. Frodo's hands slipped down beneath his waist. Sam felt a warm hand fold around him, then begin a series of slow, steady strokes that sent his breath into ribbons. Greed filled Sam, spun recklessly through his flesh, wiping caution from his mind. He arched up against the headboard and then bore down with his thighs until Frodo fairly growled frustration.

Abruptly, Frodo pulled away. Sam nearly screamed as his head threatened to implode. Damp played at the edges of Frodo's face as he struggled to gain awareness. After a moment he remembered what made him stop. He looked down at Sam.

"You're right then?" Frodo said as he puffed for breath.

"Aye," Sam said tersely. "I do _so_ hate it when you _do_ that."

"When I don't do that, you mean." Sweat ran trails down Frodo's cheeks. "Its just…well last night, are you quite sure you didn't sprain…"

"I'm not twisting! You were twisting me!"

Frodo looked confused. "I was?"

"You're doin' it right now!" Sam reached over to the side table, then knocked over the empty mug. He swore and fumbled around with his hand until he located the drawer pull. He couldn't quite get his fingers around the knob. Sam raised himself up until he was able to get purchase on the drawer. He pulled it open, grabbed the waiting bottle of oil. With a happy shout, Sam twisted back towards Frodo, then stopped.

Frodo's eyes sparked wide. "No!"

All the color slowly drained from Samwise's hurt face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** How Sam got his groove back  
**Author:** Feather Silver  
**Pairing:** Frodo/Sam  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warnings:** Slash, filthy language, really graphic sex  
**Summary: **Part 2 of Southfarthing tales. Frodo and Sam begin a journey to the Southfarthing. Sam discovers the power of the magic nightshirt, and regains his confidence

The smial was alive with a healthy apricot glow Samwise did not share. His mutters had grown surly as the morning drew on. Sam's punishment, for he refused to see it any other way, was to be confined within a nightshirt and a long, loose dressing gown. Both nearly dragged the floor. This was so, as Frodo had explained, Sam would not feel inclined to leave the smial to work in the garden.

The parlor stank of liniment and burdock. Samwise sat atop a ridiculous pile of pillows in the master's chair, with more cushions stuffed under his arms. Each time he tried to move, Frodo sighed and sent guilt clattering all around the smial until Sam thought his head would burst. It was one thing to bollox up in bed, quite another to never let that horrible moment pass; twice now. In a row.

"Let me be," Sam growled as Frodo busily ignored him. That cool, calm intellect was oblivious to pride or frustration, and showed best when Frodo was on about mending troubles.

Something terrible had happened at some point in Frodo's life. Thereafter, all unfamiliar things had to pass a certain muster. This was unintentional, but that didn't make the scrutiny sting less for Sam. In the dark of their shared bed, Sam would sometimes feel him break open and become the wild thing still fresh from the great smial. That terrific intelligence would ease, leaving love blended with innocence, need and a thousand other amazing things that were uniquely Frodo. Lately, the responsibility of running Bag End was affecting his spirit. Nothing Sam did or said helped. Because he didn't know how to fix it, Sam found himself beggared again and again, and always beneath the lamp of those eyes from which nothing remained hidden for long.

Sam imagined he saw hurt flicker through that flawless posture. Then Frodo was on his knees, laying his head across Sam's lap and clutching at his nightshirt like a child.

"It scares me to see you so poorly, and I…"

"I know." Sam let out a long, soothing breath. "Yer not the trouble - the troubles with me," he said with certainty.

Frodo leaned up. "However so?"

Sam gave a painful shrug. "I don't know."

A day later Sam was fine. His gaffer was also on the mend. He had risen from his bed to come help with some promising rose stents. The signs were right. A hard bark had folded over the spliced stems of two established favorites; _Sweet Harmony_ and _Bywater's Dreaming_. The colors would not be bold, but the fruit looked to be hardy and overlarge. While they worked, Sam laughed on about Lobelia's sudden fixation with farmer Maggot's gardening habits. His dad laughed with him. Maggot's passion was of a practical nature. He kept squash blossoms in a vase on the family table. His wife favored the tiny yellow flowers from cucumber vines to weave into her hair. The posies both wore on their sleeves for Buckland's Remembrance Day were actually red pepper blossoms. Maggot called them posies just the same, as he considered them far more sincere than frippery. Should Lobelia go looking she would discover Maggot's rose was just a sunflower. While many found them marvelous, they were considered far too ordinary to garner mention with society fanciers that evaluated beauty. 'Maggot's Rose" was the name that began many a ditty at the Green Dragon, but Sam doubted Lobelia would ever catch the plot.

Frodo was working in Bilbo's study behind a closed door. Sam brought him tea and victuals, noticed he ate little and talked less. The study was a mass of paper and dust, wrinkled notes and hasty scribblings. The remnants of Bilbo's life lay scattered everywhere in piles. Half finished thoughts and open journals blotted with ink, envelopes bearing queer seals and fine parchments were stacked high upon worn oak shelves that scraped the low ceiling. Shiny bits and things only a magpie would cozen lay at random intervals here and there, some being especially sharp and unfriendly to trod upon. Maps stretched wide upon the walls, hiding older relics beneath. Elegant script marked the names of places no hobbit in living memory had ever journeyed to. The ones marking Bilbo's travels were just as disconcerting, if only for the strangeness of the odd, winding trek. Sometimes Frodo would take comfort in looking at the maps, as if he knew that his Uncle was busy charting new paths. Lately, Frodo rarely looked up from the confusing wad of nonsense that Sam suspected were Bilbo's finances.

At dusk Sam decided Frodo had endured enough and forced him to come out for a proper supper. He looked weary and drawn, but smiled readily enough at a plate of mixed spring lettuces and berries sprinkled with sweet cider vinegar. The smell of rosemary-basted chicken drifted up from the stove. A sweating decanter of ruby red wine fresh from the cellars sat at the center of the table. Frodo ate and drank himself to happiness as Sam looked on with satisfaction.

"We'll be making a trip shortly," Frodo said after a second helping of soft cheese tart.

Sam tilted his head. "Buckland?"

"The Longbottom."

"That's a ways. I'll be sure to tell the Gaffer so Mari can look in whilst we're off." Sam let the question hang in the air.

"Investments," Frodo explained. "I need to shift some money about, and there's a right bit of good farmland down the South farthing that I'd like to look over. The Hornblowers have left a standing invitation, and I could use their advice. " He wiped at his face with a napkin then slid down into thought.

"Bilbo's left a mess," Sam said.

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. "I was hoping not to tell you."

Sam smirked at his notion of privacy. Surely there wasn't a hobbit left between Bywater and Hobbiton who hadn't guessed at the truth. "Is that why he left then?"

Frodo looked confused for a moment then laughed, "Oh my dear, if it were only as simple as that!"

Sam drove the pony trap over the wide Brindleberry road past the Three Farthing stone. Frodo bounced pleasantly beside him, fast asleep. That morning they had picked up the trap from Whil Whitfoot's stable in Bywater, then set out for Acron Hornblowers' farm in the Southfarthing town of Longbottom. Tobold Hornblower, creator of the highly prized "Longbottom Leaf", or "Longbottom Blend" as some called it, was both Acron and Frodo's distant ancestor. Bilbo had made a special point to invite Acron and his wife as guests at the Big Birthday Party. There, Bilbo had pressed Frodo to make good connections with his all his distant kin, with special emphasis on the Hornblowers.

From what little he knew of them, Sam thought them particularly blessed as their amazing crop always met or exceeded the previous year's standards. However, their talent for growing 'Old Toby' did not extend to children. The couple had remained barren for many years. Sam thought it odd that the Great Mother was so arbitrary with her gifts. It did not seem just that such goodly folk were unable to bear that which would ensure their ability to tend the land.

As Sam drove the trap on through the Green Hills, he thought it odd to see such vast expanses bereft of chimney smoke or gardens. Tall feathered grasses mixed with swaths of purple heather on out to a sloped horizon. In the near distance, willows lolled above hawthorns and sparkling streams. The air seemed sweeter this far away from the holes and neatly kept buildings of the Westfarthing. Sam felt the rhythm of the seasons beckon to him from across the downs. Some thought a rustic lifestyle was incapable of inspiring wonder. Sam pitied them.

The sun drew back into the hills, and the little village of Pincup showed over the next rise. Frodo stirred from his nap, looked around. Up above, storm clouds were gathering in the dying light.

"We should stop here," he said as he stretched himself fully awake. "The weather looks to be turning. There's an inn up ahead. The 'Swan's Art'."

"That's a funny name," Sam said as he guided the trap across a smooth stone bridge. Sure enough, just ahead, a low, flat rough-hewn building bore a sign with a large white bird smoking a pipe.

There were no other traps in the stable yard, but Sam could see a welcoming rick full of sweet grasses and hay. He and Frodo jumped out, had a stretch, then cooed praises upon dear Sally, the pony Mayor Whitfoot had lent them for the trip. A stable lad emerged from the back of the yard then led Sally away to her own stall. Frodo and Sam got together the rest of their gear and went into the Swan's Art.

A friendly publican showed them to a table by a window where they both could overlook a wide valley to the North. Leading down to a broad expanse of dusky fields, were small streams and brooks that ran this way and that across little boulders resting all along the hillside. The road ran through the middle; as far as they both could see there was nothing else to the village. Pincup appeared to extend only across the rise, below was clear growing land. The publican returned with two healthy half pints of the local ale, and a large tray featuring savory meats and cheeses. The two ate their fill then were shown to a large room upstairs.

Frodo sat atop a wide window seat looking out over the moonlit valley below. Shimmering ripples of twinkling light danced off distant falls. Dark shadows of trees waved gentle fingers at the stars amidst the chirrup of hidden insects. An owl hooted sagely from atop a fence post near the edge of the window, then took wing to go hunting in the night. Frodo clicked open the window and let fresh air move through the room. Outside was refreshingly balmy and calm. The rain had bypassed the valley then moved further south leaving faint strips a lightning in its wake. Frodo watched as jagged tendrils lanced down from distant clouds for a while before hoping down from the ledge to undress.

The door swung open and Sam bustled in. He had enjoyed first crack at the tub down the hall and was busy toweling himself off. A healthy glow radiated from the deep natural gold of his flesh. Frodo thought he appeared quite pleased with himself. Ever since crossing over into the South farthing, Sam had come alive in unexpected ways. The sly shift of his hips, blooming confidence and candor suited Sam well. He was a large hobbit; he deserved to move like one and not be brought low by ridiculous concerns. Frodo vowed to never saddle Sam with any of the daft nonsense Bilbo and Gandalf had heaped onto himself. If it were the last thing he did, Frodo would ensure that Samwise was free, even if that meant losing him. While Frodo's life might drift into twists and turns, he couldn't bear to drag his heart's desire down with him.

One thing was entirely clear; Frodo needed desperately to rearrange his finances. His goal was to establish a legacy that was free of constraint and strong enough to thwart his cousin's ambitions concerning Bag End. Dozens of hobbits depended upon earnings from the estate. Most of the residents of Bagshot row relied on agreements structured by Bilbo. The Gamgee's housing and income derived from such. Bilbo must have been mad to leave everything in such a state of confusion. Gandalf had hinted as much. Frodo originally thought the wizard was playing at academics. In reality he had been far too kind.

Movement flashed at the corner of Frodo's eyes. He turned his head. Samwise was grinning and turning about. He had put on the special nightshirt, the 'clever' one he favored for the long opening down the front. Marvelous. A broad smile played at Frodo's lips then was answered by a low chuckle from Sam. It was then Frodo realized he'd gone woolgathering after doffing his own clothes, and was therefore quite naked. His appreciation for the special nightshirt had not gone unnoticed, as was evident in Sam's rakish grin.

He didn't blush, or he thought he didn't. Sam's eager expression told him everything he needed to know. A breeze wafted across Frodo's backside. He flinched and reached for the window handle. Sam stopped him then looked outside.

"You think you could reach down there?"

Frodo quailed at the drop. "I haven't had my bath yet."

And this was so completely ridiculous they both laughed aloud. "Look, I'll go first, then ye step down on me, right?" Sam lifted a leg out the window. "The frogs will avert their eyes."

"Careful!" A sheer drop awaited just beyond the cliff face. Sam stepped outside and balanced on a boulder. He reached up.

Frodo bit his lip. If any of this made it back to Bywater, he'd never make it through the Green Dragon without ducking his head. With a tremendous burst of courage, Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and lowered himself gently down.

Sam, thankfully, carried him away from the Inn. At a safe distance he placed Frodo back on his feet then took his hand. They walked in silence as the moon chased away the clouds and then lit the wide path ahead. Pincup really was no more than an Inn and stable. For now, the entire rise and broad valley belonged only to them.

Frodo moved through the forest like mist. Sam saw flashes of pale flesh darting between ramble and shadow. They walked on for some distance before arriving at a spot overlooking the falls both had glimpsed before. Frodo climbed atop a wide boulder and bent down to gaze into the pool below him. Spray rose up and settled across his face. He opened his mouth to lick as the cool water went rushing by.

Sam watched him laugh and tousle wet through his hair. It was a steep drop of some great distance to the pool and Sam found himself staring bleakly at the churning water below. While Frodo was skittish about heights, water made him reckless. With a wink, Frodo simply turned his head, then was gone. A few seconds later Sam heard a healthy splash echo up from below.

A sputtering face broke the surface and cried out from the shock of cold. Sam was instantly nervous. He hated water, thought playing about in it unnatural. Water silenced unfamiliar things. The pool below was alive with frothing, dangerous swirls, and the noise from the falls was shatteringly loud. Despite himself, Sam stepped back and turned away.

Shortly, Frodo found a path back to the rise. He found Sam looking hesitantly over the edge, as if he was gauging the merits of overcoming his fear. Frodo watched him for a while then perched back atop the rock. Few real things frightened Frodo; he reserved the majority of his fear for ideas.

When he was younger, Frodo would often sneak about questing for adventure. Since coming to Bag End most of his journeys took place only in his mind. He'd allowed himself to slip into that sedentary pace that Bilbo favored during his later ages. In his heart, Frodo was a creature of extreme indulgences whose predictability was measured only by stamina. So many things had passed from him in Hobbiton. It was as if he were living a duel life somehow and reaping benefit from neither. Pincup allowed him to dream. He looked at Sam and smiled rakishly, daring him to join him up on the rock.

Sam clambered up in his halting, timid way as the sound of the falls beat a steady caution through his ears. Frodo laughed at his trepidation. Sam strengthened his resolve. The boulder was slippery, as was Frodo's cool flesh. It was madness to find a comfortable spot between the two. When he did, the heavens opened wide above his head, and some recklessness bled over into him. Sam smiled giddily as spray flowed down into his hair then shouted as Frodo licked droplets from his ears. Warm lips rushed across Sam's throat, settled softly upon his chin. Sam filled up with sighs.

Frodo kissed him quickly then rolled over. After stretching himself out across the rock, Sam eased a little away. From there, Sam could see every inch of the taunt, cool body splayed beneath him. Wan light played at the hollow of Frodo's throat, across the elegant rise of narrow hips. He arched up so that the flat arc of his belly rippled narrow bands of feathered muscle. He inhaled and flexed the taunt flesh of his arms and shoulders, pushed out his chest. Where Sam was raw power, Frodo was wonderfully refined. Light and lithe, his athletic built was supple. He baled and pitched sod as good as any, but no commoner ever kept such pearl white flesh, or moved through the fields with such effortless posture. The ruling class of hobbits was sculpted beautifully across the high, delicate bones of his cheeks, but the wildness in his eyes betrayed his broader appetites.

It energized Sam to watch Frodo enjoy his own quality. Moreover, the eyes looking back at him held no weakness, showed no concern. Impish and fey, this was the lad that once kicked over a bucket of milk so he could show off his pretty arse as he bent over to wipe it up. He remembered the first time Frodo let him fuck him down inside the wine cellar while Bilbo stalked the floors above, searching every corner. Sam had slammed Frodo so hard he'd knocked the plaster from the wall. He'd barely gotten his breeches fixed before Bilbo found them. He'd dreamed fitfully for weeks after that. There was still a big bald patch on the wall. Frodo liked it there.

Patient hands rode across the folds of the damp nightshirt that clung to the powerful cut of Sam's chest, the sturdy curve of his back, then down to hard cabled thighs. Fingers traced around the outline of the tight heat pressed against his belly, then back up to the sharp cleft of his breast. When they reached his throat, Frodo closed his eyes as a sigh settled across soft, swollen lips.

Sweetness bordered on pain. Sam fairly flew into a frenzy of lust, grinding against the answering stroke of Frodo's heat, rolling them both across the boulder, tearing pleasure from the hot mouth locked onto his. Cries rippled across Frodo's voice.

"You want me to fuck you, then?" Sam pinned his shoulders. Hazy eyes sparked lightning through his guts. "Tell me."

A lazy grin broke the flush on Frodo's cheeks. "How?"

A hand stole beneath the shirt, gathered Sam up inside a tight fist. Despite himself, Sam grunted and thrust reflexively. Frodo's face lit with a little knowing smile. He worked Sam cruelly, cool fingers seeking out every secret trigger within him. Sam's breathing fractured grew ragged, then greedy as he flexed and twisted, unable to stop himself from falling again and again into that determined touch. Frodo's rough laughter snapped him back to awareness. Sam trapped the fingers against the rock with his weight. The movement stopped. Safe for the moment, Sam choked down air and gathered his wits. When he looked up again, Frodo's lovely face hung a breath away, pouting beautifully.

Sam licked and sucked urgently at Frodo's fingers. In turn, Frodo took Sam's fingers into his mouth. He shifted, forced Sam's fingers past the back of his honeyed throat, then farther as he opened wider still. Sam groaned and watched his fingers slide back and forth across full, wet lips, vanish behind a busy tongue. Sharp teeth grazed his palm. Sam kicked Frodo's knees apart. Shimmering laughter bubbled up against Sam's ear.

"Not _that_ way," Frodo teased. "The _other_ that way."

And this was all Sam wanted to hear. He wrestled his hand back, snatched up Frodo's. He rolled the palm open, spat heavily into the center. Needing no direction, Frodo wove his hand down, gained Sam's cock and squeezed. Despite the urge to fling himself off the rock, Sam held true as Frodo expertly slid Sam's velvety foreskin further back then gently pinched the tip between his thumb and forefinger. Sam jumped and swore violently, gnashed his teeth and hissed. Frodo smiled then stripped fire out of Sam, stroking and twisting him to the ragged edge of pain, then down again into a softer, soothing touch that was somehow more maddening. Sam's breathing hollowed out as he gritted his teeth and hung on as a wet slick built up against his thigh.

At last, Sam came to his senses. He reached down and knocked away Frodo's hand.

"Yer knowing me too well," he said as he scrabbled for breath.

"…from loving you a time or two," Frodo offered in breathless explanation.

"Aye, I've loved you a fair bit as well." Sam shifted slightly, and Frodo slipped into his lap. His flesh was cool against Sam's – smooth, fast and tight. "And I'm knowin' that mouth's about run short o' comment jus' 'bout _now_." Sam threw his back into a shove that knocked Frodo a hand span above his thighs. Sam caught him easily – he was so _light_ - in a steady grip that pinned his arms, left his breath in tatters. They were both wet with spray, the nightshirt long past soaked through. Frodo struggled to gain purchase on Sam's thighs, straddle his cock. Sam shifted, and his cock slipped away, leaving Frodo on the edge of rage. "But no' so much for screamin'," Sam added then touched the edge of his tongue against a special spot behind Frodo's ear. The shriek that greeted him struggled against the thunder of the falls. Blood surged through Sam's eyes while his mouth seethed ragged hunger down Frodo's throat. Sam shifted again, felt Frodo's hot cleft settle into place.

"You want me to fuck you?" Sam insisted. Getting Frodo to admit anything was nearly impossible. "Tell me," he said softly as he slipped a finger down between them, teasing, penetrating him just enough to pull greedy little sobs from the back of Frodo's throat.

"Get on with it, you cruel bastard!" Frodo cried hoarsely, body wet with need.

Sam thrust up as hard as he could. The slick tip of his shaft breached Frodo at once. A great shudder rocked the body in his arms. Frodo screamed inside Sam's mouth. Sam closed his eyes and growled, pushed harder – felt a rock hard fist of muscle clamp down on his cock. Frodo thrashed and struggled wildly against his chest, fighting. Sam pulled his head back, gave a great sigh. From some fading part of his mind, he summoned patience. In a moment, he was able to move forward again. Frodo's cries changed pitch as his hands clutched and shook. Sam laid his forehead against Frodo's cheek, waiting, feeling his body stutter, then relax. An instant later, Sam slammed up again.

A tight, living glove sheathed him in fire. Samwise felt each breath, each heartbeat clatter madly through every part of Frodo until there wasn't a secret left. Trembling lips murmured senselessly. Frodo fell apart, melted bonelessly, yielding everything to feeling, exchanging all his worlds for now.

Everything fled from Sam's mind. Energy tore open his brain and sang. With a mighty heave, Samwise hugged Frodo tighter, and stood up. Sam sank a tooth into his lip as he gripped the boulder with nothing more than his toes. Frodo wriggled, locked his ankles across Sam's back, steadying them both. The sky spread wide, starlight smiled down. Sam lost himself in the slap and pull of heavy bodies, felt bliss quiver across the surface of his mind. He threw back his head and shouted, heard his voice echo all around the valley as Frodo started to shudder and hunch greedily against his belly.

Sam faded into a twilight delirium. The night moved to a single far away point, then swam back into sharp focus. His whole body contracted and wound into a fist as all the stars dissolved into one long fractured sigh. Moments later, Frodo snapped over and went ridged with a breathless scream. A rush of wet heat spread over Sam's breast as the body in his arms quivered and sobbed for air. It was the sweetest music Sam knew - would ever know. He laughed as Frodo's song sliced him to pieces as his own orgasm peaked. _Sing_, Sam thought. _Sing to me, my darling, my love, my master, my world_.

Sam wasn't aware of time. Frodo lay curled at his side. A cool breeze lifted spray from the falls. Sam caught some water against his tongue, savored it. Little tremors whirled pleasantly up and down his spine. Frodo rolled drowsily. Sam made sure he didn't roll off the rock. That was important.

They might have slept, Sam wasn't sure. The sky was dark, and the stars faded. There was a wonderful clarity to his thoughts. Frodo was all tangles and warm sweetness. The fire within spread out into his limbs – his touch burned. Sam pushed some of the hair out of Frodo's face, kissed his eyes tenderly. A happy smile lit his ruddy cheeks. Sam smiled with him. The moon ducked down into a nest of clouds. Somewhere close by, a night bird sang in high, trilling notes that slipped in and out of the drone of the falls.

"When we get back, I should like to talk to you," Frodo said.

"As ye like." Sam yawned lazily. "Somethin' special?"

"I love you." Frodo's voice was shattered and utterly sincere.

"An' I love you." An itch crept up between Sam's shoulders. He ground his back against the rock, then realized he still wore the nightshirt. He took it off, folded it carefully and kissed it. "Can't be loosin' this!"

Frodo looked strangely distant. Sam wasn't ready for him to be away yet. "Think we can get back w' out givin' the Inn a show?" He chuckled at his own nakedness. "Sneak back through the window, eh?"

"Suits." Frodo rolled to his feet then pulled up Sam.

There was something distressingly open about Frodo then. He appeared vulnerable, as if the layers of protection he wore around him were suddenly burdensome. This could be a good or bad. Sam considered a wide expanse of possibilities, then said, "Whatever happens, I will be there."

And that seemed to settle it for the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Southfarthing Tales Part 3

**I'll Gladly Pay You Tuesday for A Cask of Leaf Today**

**Author & email address**: Feather Silver - , LJ address: feather-silver./

**Pairing**: Frodo/Sam

**Rating**: PG – 13 for distressing language, slash

**Summary**: In Part three, Sam and Frodo enter the Longbottom valley, and meet up with Acron and Petunia Hornblower. Frodo's continued willingness to share memories of his past gets Sam thinking. Frodo also has a business proposal for Acron that seems too good to be true.

Reluctantly, the two packed up and got back on the road after promising to return to Pincup. Frodo hinted that he wished to discuss business with the inn keep after he'd met with Acron Hornblower. He'd also suggested that he wished some business with Sam, but wouldn't say what it was. Since last night, Frodo appeared at odds with his own behavior. As he and Sam both trundled through the wide green hills, Frodo looked like he wished to say something vital, but couldn't find the words. For long stretches he said nothing, but stirred with busy thoughts. Sam couldn't figure it out. After having a few slashes at a wineskin the Inn keep had topped up, Frodo started talking. Sam minded the road and listened.

"I tried to run away from the Hall, once," Frodo confided. "After my parents passed on, I decided I'd had quite enough of Buckland. Like most things, it all went quickly wrong. The whole 'packing enough food to travel' issue I had yet to master. Thankfully, a shirrif came upon me before it got too dark and something sinister occurred."

Sam knotted his brows, imagining Frodo stubbornly attached to the base of some tree, torn between following his heart's desire and filling his belly. "Where were you going?"

"Away. Just away. Across the Brandywine to be gone somewhere hobbits weren't nattering on about food, and clothes, and all those ordinary things that are at once safe and endearing, boring and stunningly maudlin." Frodo reflected on his words with a wry smile. "Whatever unique qualities perceived in me always lent suspicion. It was generally agreed that I would grow to be quite useless, as those things my family prided simply escaped me."

"Useless?" Sam laughed. "Who's the one says what purpose any o' us have?"

"The Thain, The Master of the Hall, My blessed Aunty Esmeralda..." Frodo recited. "Unless, of course, you think they're all narrow old twits more concerned with appearance than effort. Far be it for an original thought to ever enter the minds of those so burdened with responsibility. My parent's position in things allowed them to criticize. Inheriting that skepticism did me no favors."

"Didn't anyone keep your back?" Sam had always wondered if Frodo's cousins had the mettle to defy their parents early on? They seemed to speak out of both sides of their mouth when it came to picking alliances, although it was obvious they were both infatuated with Frodo. In the Gamgee household, it was the solemn duty for all siblings to unite in thwarting the ambitions of the parent. Should someone switch allegiances in order to gain favor, the wrath of the majority interceded. In Sam's case, a caning from his father was nothing compared to retaliation from his sisters, who did not temper their vengeances with adult restraint.

"I never expected them to. It would have been unconscionable to place them at odds with their parents over something they will likely never understand. While they did rebel, it was always within the scope of the known and probable. With myself there was no such generosity, although I didn't know it back then. I simply thought there was a far higher purpose to life than sitting about in some great wretched smial wondering on about which frock coat went best with which breeches." He squeezed his lips together then took a deep slash from the skin. "Or how best to manage the destinies of those common hobbits whose fates were bound to the whims of the elite."

"It's very hard to own anythin' in Buckland, aye? 'Tis all divided out into holdings?" Sam said.

"Yes. Courting favor is a high art amongst the various councils. It's terrifically dreary, although taken very seriously. Nor are ones doings entirely one's own. The only way out of your lot is to attempt to cross into one of the land owner's families. No doubt this is why Brandy Hall is constantly overflowing with children from all manner of ill considered relationship."

Sam's eyes opened wide. "You're jokin'!"

"You've no concept of bastardry in Hobbiton," Frodo laughed dryly in that self-deprecating manner that sounded cruel, but wasn't meant to be.

"Why did Master Bilbo come and get you out of Buckland, then?" Sam said. "You were there a fair bit after all that went on…"

"What caused them to be rid of me, you mean?" Frodo smirked. "My Aunt took it upon herself to quick my interest in the fair sex. Sadly, it all ended in tears," He said breezily, as if this was the manner of all things in his life. "For while I found my third cousin on the Tookish side enticing, I had no desire for the level of obligation her position required."

"What?"

"I wouldn't marry her, because I didn't used to believe in it."

"You got her with child?" Sam could scarce believe what he was hearing.

"Of course not." Frodo paused to consider something. He turned a little around in the seat until he had Sam's full attention. Very gently he said, "In my family, nothing is taken lightly. That's what the kitchen staff is for, or the ladies maid who wishes nothing more than to add to the clatter of children inside the Hall, and perhaps come away with something for her troubles. It is the way things are done until after marriage. It's all quite common, almost a requirement in some circles. Aunty was more than willing to concede that my preferences would conflict with the usual arrangements. Therefore, she hired on the loveliest stable lad in anticipation of my betrothal, being, of course, that it was set to last for many years…"

"Gardeners?" Sam blurted, then wondered at once why he was being so obvious. "Forgive me, I didn't mean…"

"Yes you did, and you are correct. There was quite a stunning collection of gardeners all too eager to accede to whatever demands the household placed upon them." Frodo said, not begrudging Sam his insistence. "When I chose to wander off after the stable lad and ignore Edlyn Took's advances, my rebellion was complete." He chuckled a little as embarrassment colored his cheeks. "And of course, once Edlyn stormed back off to Tuckburough, Auntie's concession was assigned to a distant holding, never to return."

Something turned over in Sam's stomach. "Stars…your goin' on like the Master's wife was about pullin' fanny up the pub!" Sam shook his head, amazed. "Not even that, for the doxy's are a might prized as it were, and no secret I'm knowin' of. Truth be told, Bywater would likely collapse should 'ol Ruby Smithchild get shut o' us. M' gaffer would go daft inside a fortnight!" He was struggling for words. "_Queer doin's_ ain't the half of what I am hearin'!"

"I used to despair of it, but now I understand some of their reasonings." Frodo's face showed no anger, but instead, a long ago acceptance that not every choice presented him suited. "My parents never once abided a bit of it. Hence my own refusal surprised no one. I must say, I found it all enormously depressing - using hobbits like bits of money to be exchanged back and forth. It did press me to some interesting conclusions." He smiled, and appeared to wish for Sam to know his heart then, as if he had been saving himself for a time when he was sure someone would be interested enough to listen. "The foremost being all Hobbits bring in the harvest, together."

Sam grunted sagely. "Ol' custom that. Brings the high w' the low."

"Sweating together in some daft great wheat field tends to focus ones priorities a bit. Mind, I understand Uncle Saradoc has managed it in velvets a time or two…"

"Lobelia's blasted parasol near took my eye one year." Sam considered something he'd heard. "If its true then that the gentry never marry outside o' their own, doesn't that make…"

"Surely it's occurred to you that my predilections and appearance are somewhat extraordinary, Sam?" Frodo laughed a little to himself. "And yes, as you are well aware, unbalanced behavior runs on both sides of my family. I've no doubt it's a result of one too many cousins being paired off together."

"Not me." Sam nodded his head with certainty. "M' thinks you've heaped all upon your shoulders in some daft way of ownin' yer blessins'. Like bein' proud like that must have some price." He snorted out a chuckle then turned to look into Frodo's face. "There ain't no 'concept of bastardry' in Hobbiton, aye, an' there ain't no guilt, neither."

"You're not a selfish people." Frodo seemed to relax into the seat. "Thank the Valar."

"Comes from never havin' nothin' much to fret over." Sam knotted his brows together. "How many bloody gardeners?"

Frodo laughed until wine nearly dribbled out of his nose. Sam let it go, then picked up another thread.

"You've missed something there," he said as Frodo passed over the remains of the wineskin. Sam frowned at the weight. It was unlike Frodo to drink so much so early on. "All this is goin' on in that odd warren some like to call a smial, eh?"

Frodo bobbed his head. "Entertaining on most days…"

"Well, yer not a very entertaining lad, beggin' yer pardon." Sam pictured the heaps and stacks of well-worn books that Frodo and his uncle tore through for enjoyment. He'd never seen a hobbit with such a desire to learn things beyond the obvious. "Don't you think a wee bit o' what were put at you was nothin' more then confusion? I can't says those that carry on so would be of a mind to…_think_ much on things…"

A deeper understanding bloomed in Frodo's chest. "Oh…well, if you put it _that_ way…"

"I thought so." Sam huffed, convinced that everything he'd heard about Buckland was an understatement.

The Hornblower farm lay on the south side of the tallest of the great green hills. Sadly, this meant Acron's guest coming in from the north endured a perilous climb up the Brindleberry road, which was nothing more than a rough path at that point. Frodo and Sam walked alongside the trap, heavy travel sacks tossed over their shoulders. Sally hove forward with all her might, but needed assistance from both hobbits to win the crest of the last rise. At the top, all three paused to catch their breath and look out on the lush, green Longbottom valley meandering below.

Pine forests clung to the edges of large cultivated fields. Row upon row of maturing leaf plants ran in long straight lines out towards a sloped horizon. In the distance, a series of shallow tributaries fed water into ditches that ran parallel to the march of plants. Open drying sheds with broad, flat metallic roofs stood beside the fields, their heavy timbers lined with sweet golden tresses of cured leaf. Little packinghouses with wide elevated platforms nestled closest to the path, casks and barrels of all sizes stacked carefully against their outer walls. Further down the slope close to the valley floor sat a modest structure set into the side of a curious mound of earth. About the size of a barrow, it appeared to be some sort of semi-detached smial, surrounded by a modest garden filled with blooming creepers and vines.

Sam noticed that there were no other hobbits for as far as he could see. Fields half this size required hundreds of busy hands all through the growing season. It seemed impossible to him that only two could tend so much land. "However do they manage so far away an' all alone?"

"The whole region must come down to help with the planting and the harvest. That would also explain why Southfarthing folk are not known to travel during the spring or fall," Frodo said, admiring the tenacious will of his kin. "Have you ever been to a leaf farm?"

Sam shook his head. "No, but I heard stories a plenty. Leaf blights with too much water - spoils with too little. Even the lightest touch o' frost will wither it down to nothin' in no time a'tall. 'Tis a greedy plant that ruins sturdy land, if it 'ent fed just so. An' every dirty bug in the shire heads straight for its roots all year. Aye, an' one sick plant left alone will foul an entire field." Sam knotted his brows together and strove for an accurate summary. "Tricky," he said and nodded, satisfied.

"Indeed," Frodo chuckled, then said to Sam, "Are there any growing things you haven't mastered?"

Sam thought for a moment, then thought a little longer…

Petunia Hornblower was fiddling with the clothesline. A healthy wind had spilled down from the hills and spun the days washing into surly wads. As she fussed and separated, Petunia chewed on something that made a fat dimple in her cheek. When the sound of the trap rolling down the path reached her, she blushed with sudden self-awareness. Quickly, she turned her head, expelled a gooey brown mass then covered it up with a few lady-like kicks.

"Master Hornblower!" she sang out as she ran towards the trap, sprinkling clothespins carelessly in her wake. "Out with you ol' lazy bones, we've guests to look after! 'Tis dear Frodo an' the Gamwich lad!"

"Oh!" Acron popped his head out of a window in the smial, a broad grin spreading across his ruddy face. With a grunt, Acron tumbled out of the window, got to his feet then dashed off towards the road.

Frodo barely had time to step down from the trap before Petunia sprang into his arms. All laughter and kisses, she quickly overwhelmed him. In another breath Acron fairly swept him off the ground into a fierce hug.

"There's me bonny Baggins' kin!" Acron said as he squeezed. "Ah, yer lookin' fit and hale as the lad I am remembering."

"You'd think it no' been less than half a season since you seen him!" Petunia smiled warmly. "And here's Hamfast's son… Samwise is it?"

Sam nodded politely, then jumped as Petunia reached up and grabbed his ears. "All the blessings of the Mother be on 'ye," she said then planted two kisses on each of Sam's cheeks. "'Tis a fine thing by far to have 'ol Holman Greenhand's kin back in the Longbottom."

"Much obliged to you, Missus Hornblower," Sam said, then realized just how relaxed he suddenly felt. It was the first time one of Frodo's elder relations had welcomed him as anything other than a servant.

The inside of the cottage was rich and dressed with finely appointed luxuries that contrasted sharply with the merry hobbits stuffing themselves with sumptuous cold foods. Around a wide ebony wood table, inset with myriad chalcedony, the four sat in heavy, banded great chairs a shade too tall for hobbit legs. Green button squash sprinkled with brandied figs, and exotic, smoked fish of a size and texture unknown in Hobbiton, lay on marvelous plates limned in fine argent. Cut crystal decanters filled with sweet ruby red liquor flowed into bone goblets inscribed with curious runes. In a blue glass bowl near the center of the table, were piles of strange looking leaves spun from gossamer sugar. In another bowl sat fruits from sultry lands far outside the shire.

"So many surprises!" Frodo laughed. "You'd think you were expecting royalty with all this delicious fare!"

"Old Toby has blessed us well," Petunia said, then bit into a delicate fairy slipper cake.

"We get it through trade." Acron gestured to a colorful tapestry depicting scenes of both elves and men. "That came to us through Michel Delving, as I recall. One o' the _big ones_ bartered it away for leaf."

"Not without consequence, mind," Petunia chuckled. "Trade's not everyone's blessing. It brings odd types into the shire, and that won't do for some."

"Oh?" Frodo said between bites of honeyed mutton stacked on whisper thin wheat rounds. "Buckland and Tookland both trade heavily with Bree…"

"This ain't Buckland," Acron said, a surly wedge cropping the edge of his cheek. "An we ain't Brandybucks with all that rot and confabulation about class, and station…"

"Meaning," Petunia interrupted before her husband could further insult their guest. "We 'ent got enough of our own to look over the border at Sam Ford."

"There's a ranger station there." Frodo looked to Acron. "And surely the shirrif's patrol so far south?"

"Men," Acron said pointedly. "Are not Hobbits."

Sam nodded his head sharply then raised his cup. "An' never the two may mix, 'an that's flat." Acron reached across and banged his cup into Sam's. "Big, lumberin' fools tear up more than they give back."

Petunia rolled her eyes. "Frodo love, 'tis not our desire to keep _good_ folk out of the shire. Longbottom's hobbits are a bit more timid than most, as we've long memories o' what drove them Fallohide's out from Bree to begin with."

"T'were curiosity, more 'n fear," Acron mused and winked at Frodo. Both shared a fair streak of Fallohide in their blood. "An' a desire to make the best o' a new country."

"With a busy mind that's not all virtue, neither," Petunia laughed.

"I fail to see how curiosity could be considered a flaw," Frodo said, and sipped his wine.

Petunia and Acron exchanged grins.

"'Tis not," Acron said at last, relaxing back into his chair with a private smile for his wife. "But some's got more 'n what most consider right."

Petunia returned his look with a wink. "An' Master Hornblower is the worst o' a bad lot."

After a long discussion on the merits of innovation and trade, Frodo, Acron and Sam wandered out into the fields for a smoke. While the two sparked a pipe and talked on, Sam slipped back between rows of tender young plants to go exploring on his own.

At the end of each long row of hip high plants, was a long irrigation ditch filled with sooty brown water. A familiar odor drifted up from the ditch, sparking Sam's curiosity. He planted his knees in the loose soil, bent over and got a handful of water. Something called to him then, a deep inquisitive sense that rang throughout his body and set up a quiver in his toes. Without understanding why, Sam knew the water held one of Old Toby's secrets. Acting on instinct, he sniffed then tasted the water. It had a sharp, acrid flavor that reminded him of a wet pipe bowl. Sam looked closely at the ditch. Thin shreds of rippling brown strands moved lazily through the slow current.

Leaf. The ditch was peppered with leavings from the packing sheds. Gristly and useless, thick stems and twigs were regularly processed out from the cured, golden tresses before they were sorted into barrels for export. There was something else odd about this. It took Sam a moment to realize he hadn't seen or heard a bug since coming up on the Hornblower's farm. The tiny leaf patch Sam and his dad tended for Will Whitfoot on occasion was rife with insects. Fully half of the year's crop would yellow due to infestation, regardless of what Sam and his father came up with. In the end, poor Will only had a cask or two of middling quality smoke to show for all the effort. Sam looked back over his shoulder. Broad, tender leaves, glossy and busting with scent, lined the row he knelt in. Not a one showed so much as a nibble from insect or otherwise.

A burst of intuition nearly knocked Sam into the ditch. The sodden leavings and the acrid stink must combine to repel insects. Sam smiled and emptied his hands. Tobold Hornblower was said to be among the wisest hobbits that ever lived. With dead certainty, Samwise fully appreciated why.

Back where he left them, Acron and Frodo were enjoying a massive pissing match. Frodo, with his sly wit and studied charm, was trying to win Acron over to an idea he'd been mulling over for weeks. Acron, having pissed about with true professionals, feigned ignorance and instead tried to barter his way out of commitment by breaking into long windy tales of innocence dashed amidst the non-existent wilds of the valley. They strutted and arched, taking the full measure of each other's prowess, as only males could manage in so short a space of time. It was then Acron pulled a mighty trump on Frodo by offering him a pipe of private stock. When Sam came back, Frodo was babbling on as if under the effect of a truth potion.

Sam recognized the trick at once, having watched his father ply secrets from the local Miller with what the gaffer referred to as "tellin' water". A nefarious concoction of secret design, his father crafted great batches of it in the bathtub. When the Gamgee's went to barter home brew at the Winterfilth markets, "tellin' water" helped where dickering failed.

"That were rude," Sam observed as Frodo grinned and smiled freely, his face a mass of warmth and love.

"I was runnin' out o' options," Acron explained, then gave Frodo's shoulders a paternal pat. "He's deft clever."

Sam agreed, understanding Acron's dilemma. He flicked his eyes into Acron's for a moment then relaxed. Both were on the same page. "What's he on about?"

"Wants to buy the entire bloody crop before it's even away from the ground." Acron admired the sentiment, but was worried about execution. It seemed far too good to be true. "And more – he wants to pay 5 silver a cask above last year's price."

"Someone's hit me with a mallet, wrapped in the most exquisite pillow," Frodo rambled on, then pinched the end of his nose. His eyes turned inwards. "I shouldn't be speaking."

"That's terrible!" Acron said, encouraging him to go on. Sam decided that if Frodo couldn't get one past his own kin, he'd be fussed to dicker elsewhere. Everyone had to learn.

Frodo seemed to regard himself from some distance, weaving his way back to his train of thought. When he spoke, it was clear he wasn't lucid, although the words carried his intentions clearly. "I've offered you a twenty five percent increase for doing nothing. Where's the bloody issue? By the Valar, cousin! You're wanting me on my knees or what?"

Sam watched Acron's head snap back as his eyes grew wide. "Well that's a wee bit more of a confession that I've heard in quite a while…"

"Brandybucks…" Sam offered as explanation, "are _prone_ to simplicity."

"I'll not buy a scrap of your soil. Only the crop. And early, so I can sell it again at the Halimath Shire Moot at Michel Delving," Frodo pressed on peevishly. "To Elves and Men if need be, and more than a dwarf or two. Uncle's friends. I don't want any of your land. I don't want any of my _own_ land. Piss on it. We'll get you all the lovely land you wish out of Pincup, and you can grow leaf till it sticks out your arse…" Frodo turned inward again, reflecting on his own words. "Bother…that was a bit off…"

Acron was thinking. "I'm short of hands…and not likely to find anymore…"

Sam, who knew the story, placed a hand on Acron's shoulders. "Bless you, mate."

"Well _I know_ where's there's fuck all enough children to bugger up any party." Frodo collapsed into giggles.

"What's he mean?" Acron bordered on anger.

Understanding flashed through Sam. "Brandybuck Hall," he said quickly. Acron and Sam locked stares. Sam quickly explained the nature of the children in the smial, along with what prospects most could look forward to in Buckland. Acron shook his head and kicked the dirt in disbelief.

"Little ones…and so many…who would give up a babe, for _that_?" he said wistfully.

Amongst the poorer farmers, children were often shuffled about in families until a happy balance was struck. Two of Sam's brothers had been sent off to live with relations in the North Farthing and Tighfield. They were treated no differently, and received the same inheritances that any other children were due. In Buckland, however, all right to kin and hearth were surrendered when a child was fostered by the Hall. Indeed, if it weren't for Bilbo, Frodo would own nothing. His parent's holdings were absorbed by the Master's council upon their death.

In the South Farthing, the children of the Great Smial could learn a trade, earn money for land, and start their own lines. The idea appealed to Acron, but the details were beyond him. He couldn't see how the Thain would ever agree to any of it.

"Just you leave it to me," Frodo said with sure confidence. Acron and Sam turned to look at him, the enormity of what he was proposing leaving both speechless. "One thing's for sure, I've talent for pestering Aunties." He held up a finger, then regarded it closely as if it were new. "My uselessness is quite useful when sewing bother."

A look passed between Acron and Sam. All the loneliness of being raised in a warren filled with drifting, landless children, the pain of being abandoned by the uncle who loved him enough to shelter him from it all, came barreling away from Frodo and into them both. With gentle hands, Acron pulled Frodo up steady, and walked him back to his little home at the edge of the fields, humming to fill the sudden ache in his heart.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Southfarthing Tales Part 4

Goodnight, you Princes of the Shire… you Kings of Middle Earth

**Author & email address**: Feather Silver - , LJ address: feather-silver./

**Pairing**: Frodo/Sam

**Rating**: PG – 13 for distressing language, slash

**Summary**: Petunia shares the secret of the family 'mathom'. Frodo resolves his feelings about Bilbo's leaving, and the party. The Hornblowers take Sam and Frodo to a country dance in the valley, where a completely different set of worries arise.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Frodo was in the constant company of his cousin, who insisted he call him uncle. After all, it was possible, even likely, that Acron would have claimed him if Bilbo had not spoken first, so why not now? Frodo suspected he was being finessed. It was difficult to care. Acron's lack of complication was _strange_.

The broad, sun kissed valley hid no secrets from hobbit feet trodding across the sandy soil. Laughter was a constant companion in the Hornblower household. Miracles awaited discovery behind every dusty shelf and shallow box of wonders traveled there from faraway lands. Dwarven ale in heavy, glass-stone jugs lined the cellar walls. Broad, flat leaves bound with silken string hid clusters of finger sized fairy slipper cakes. Heady smells of exotic spices inspired dreams of saffron light and veils. One evening, Petunia brought out a silver cask the size of a breadbox and placed it in the center of the 'sittin' room' floor. One by one, she snuffed out all lamps in the room until only one candle remained. When she opened the cask, the room was bathed in a soft, sapphire light that stole the edges from every surface. In the center was a gem the size of a robin's egg bound by a thick, silver chain. Orange pinpoints of light sparked across the surface of the stone like cinders.

"From the gullet of a dragon, or so goes the tale," Petunia said to Sam and Frodo. "One o' the Longbeard Clan traded it to Tanta Hornblower for one hundred casks of the finest leaf in the Shire. Now it be the family _mathom," _she chuckled_._ "'Tis a relic o' dwarven times in the Grey Mountains."

"Its from a cold drake," Frodo said, looking on in fascination. "Thoren Oakenshield, the dwarf Bilbo traveled with in Erebor, said drakes were thought to remain in the Iron Hills."

Petunia picked the stone up by the chain. A pale, misty fog trailed along as she dangled it in the air. Frodo opened his hand to feel the cool vapors slip by. The stone brushed against his palm. Icy tendrils spread through up his fingers. "Oh my!"

"We use it to make ice," Acron laughed. "You dip the stone in water, it skins up right fast."

"What's a dragon doin' with this in it's crop?" Petunia said, and then laid the gem back down upon a little rune laced pillow in the center of the cask. The temperature in the room had dropped considerably. Sam thought he saw his breath. Petunia shut the lid then ran her hands briskly over her arms.

"That's a very good question!" Frodo's mind spun. "Perhaps, like a bird, the drake grinds food inside its throat prior to digestion. The stone must absorb the cold after a time."

Sam made a face. "Or 'tis what remains o' ground up dwarf."

"'Care for some dwarf flavored ice cream, then?" Petunia gnashed her teeth and growled.

The Brandywine ran closest to the eastern perimeter of the farm. Past the residence, a long irrigation ditch passed under a bridge then up an incline to the river. A series of locks controlled the flow of water into the fields. The machinery that adjusted the locks was simple. Iron wedges fit into holes made into a large stone disc. A huge wooden peg in the center held the disc in place. An old iron shaft stuck out of the side. Acron got a draft pony from the stable behind the smial to turn the shaft. The wedges kept the disc from slipping off its base. One rotation marked one foot of water.

Acron stacked large burlap sacks full of shreds and scraps from the packinghouse next to the locks. He gave Frodo the reigns to 'Nan'. Acron slit open one of the sacks with a long, bone handled knife. He turned and nodded to Frodo, who led Nan away from the shaft. Leather straps attached to the horses girdle creaked as she strained forward. Bit by bit, the shaft moved the disc around its base. The main lock raised a fraction, allowing water into the spillway. Acron started throwing double handfuls of leavings into the water. When Acron finished out the sack, Frodo moved Nan back a few paces. The lock slipped down into place, holding back the river.

They led Nan back to her paddock where Sally, and another pony, Trevor, awaited. Frodo and Acron oiled the tack then replaced it on the paddock shelter wall. They filled up the hay rick with sweet alfalfa and then watched as the ponies fed and whickered contentedly. At lunchtime, Petunia brought out a large tray of sandwiches and ice-cold sweet tea. Sam joined them for a while before getting on with the laundry. After lunch, Petunia went to go pick strawberries for teatime, while Sam went down into the tile lined larder to fetch milk and cream for later on. Acron and Frodo took a break.

Both pulled out pipes and packed them full with a mild, honey flavored blend that smelled vaguely of oranges as it burned. This was a new mix Acron hoped to sell at market that fall. The citrus blended with the dark, sweet taste to create something Frodo thought unique. He told Acron it reminded him of summer.

"I been meanin' to tell you somethin'," Acron said, and then pulled a rag out of his pocket to wipe at his brow. He was direct in his ways, and as Frodo was discovering, not one to bite back words. He liked that. He didn't have to play guessing games with Acron. With Bilbo, riddles were a sport, but Bilbo was mad. Frodo leaned up against the paddock rails and blew smoke rings into the sky, confident that when Acron was ready, he would say what was on his mind.

"All that business to do with Bilbo, that party, and all the misery it caused. You done well."

Frodo looked up curiously. That was strangely close to the mark. How did Acron know Bilbo was in his thoughts? But this was obvious, just a coincidence; Bilbo was always in his thoughts. The party had sealed it for him. Everything stopped the day that party took place and propelled him into this life. Why was he always being pushed places against his will?

Acron walked over, and with no hesitation, gathered Frodo up in his burly arms then squeezed with everything he had. All breath shot out of the slender body in a rush. Acron pressed his cheek next to Frodo's ear and said with all the tenderness he could summon, "I'm proud of you, Frodo-lad. Well done. You done good."

Trapped in a fierce embrace, a warm, loving embrace, one thing echoed over and over until Frodo stopped thinking and felt it. He had done well. He could let it go. It was done. Something heavy and black he'd not even realized was pulling at the corner of his thoughts, went away. His body relaxed, the sky opened up and light bored into him. It took him a few moments to realize he was happy, and that he could stay this way if he wanted now, because all roads ahead were his. He had done the best he could, and that was enough.

At the end of the week, Acron mentioned he was closer to giving Frodo an answer. He wanted to talk to the leaf council first and hear their thoughts on the idea. With luck, the council would encourage selling proven crops on speculation, so the money could be used to start a second planting. Frodo explained that it might be possible to get two harvests in one year, if no one had to wait until fall to sell the first one. Leaf grew quickly in the valley, cured fast beneath the tin roofs of the drying sheds. While one crop was curing, another could be growing. During winter, the second crop would season in the sheds, and then be ready for processing in early spring.

"Ain't none never tried curin' leaf in the winter," Acron told him. "But it's possible. So long as the airs stays dry, the leaf will mellow up. Some says frost bites away the bitter, and tenders up the stalks, makin' it faster to sort."

"You could use heat to cure it." Frodo said. He'd been watching Acron build smoky fires with piles of herbs and thick resins to add flavor to the reserve stock hanging in the sheds. Part of each harvest was kept back for an extra year of curing. Rich, umber brown, and powerfully fragrant, the smooth, silky leaves oozed dark resin. On a day when the breeze flowed out of the east, the scent of '_Old Toby's Black Reserve_' filled the smial with a lavish aroma. Frodo could smell it lingering in the sheets, in his clothes, in his hair. The smell marked everything it touched with a memory of hope, peace; the things he'd come to know in the valley.

Acron considered this. "Heat and leaf are tricky. Too much, it dries to dust. Too little, it rots in the sheds. The valley's humid, more so right here. Old Toby picked this spot with good reason."

"The Brandywine," Frodo agreed. "The moisture from the river, and the ditches…"

"S'not matterin' no how, lest I get some more hands. Can't says there's enough for one harvest, much less two…"

Sadness rippled through Frodo. Acron turned his eyes back towards the smial. Such a little thing for so many seemed impossible for him. That would not do.

"You have so much to offer here, not just for myself, but for all those children who might miss their chance for life in the country with two loving, dear hobbits to look after them." Frodo said, willing his words to sink down into that hollow place he could feel inside Acron. "I can think of no finer path, for anyone. For while life in Brandy Hall is in truth, no hardship, love is a hard thing to find when so few are spread so thin. Master Saradoc is no fool. There is better comfort here than even he can afford for so many." He backed up mentally, looked at his words. He thought hard on what Saradoc's reality was, surrounded by hundreds of needy, restless mouths, so many relations and nameless children all crammed into a warren of confusing spaces. "He will be grateful," Frodo said, and knew it to be the truth.

Acron's face softened, and Frodo thought he felt the center of him fill with a hope. In a moment, it was gone, but the kind, leathered face remained open to him. For as long as he could remember, the only person Frodo had comforted was Bilbo, and that was necessary, a requirement even, because the old hobbit was having problems caring for himself. There was nothing wrong with Acron, and yet Frodo had given him hope. It was odd to be so useful.

"You have my word. It will be done," Frodo said, and the confidence with which he spoke the words surprised him.

Sam was sitting on a plump little foot stool. Petunia sat on another stool opposite. Between them was a wide lipped brass jug that wasn't a jug. Sam had never seen anything close to it. He was chewing on a 'plug' of what Petunia referred to a 'chaw', which was some sort of minty tasting leaf. Slightly gooey, the sweet stale taste was different, but not unpleasant. Chewing on it made the blood rush around in his head and saliva burst into his mouth.

"Like this!" Petunia said, and then spat a long, darkish brown gob into the jug. It was the most disgusting thing Samwise had ever watched a lady do. He giggled, drew his cheeks together then leaned forward so as not to miss the jug entirely.

Petunia clapped her hands. "Yer getting' it!"

Sam wasn't sure what the point was. With a wink, Petunia stood then backed up a few paces. She churned her jaws, working up a great gob of spit. She inhaled deeply through her nose then spat a thin stream of juice directly into the jug. The spit made a 'tinging' sound when it spattered against the sides.

Petunia bobbed her head fiercely, pleased with herself. "An' that, dear lad, is how we rinse chaw in polite company. Mind, when yer on yer own, don't be lettin' it out where any might trod. 'Tis nasty then."

Sam thought it was nasty now, but fun just the same.

A lot of little jugs like that were scattered about the smial. As Petunia went about getting supper ready, she would periodically bend over and spit into one. The chaw was making Sam hasty – he could feel blood swimming up his arms. As he helped her set the table, energy was flashing all through his brain.

"Ye suck on chaw for harvest here abouts," Petunia explained. "Keeps the wind in ye, long past when it shouldn't. Be easy with it, for you'll find yerself cravin' it all the while. Like me!" she laughed recklessly. "Master Hornblower thinks it a filthy habit. Prolly 'cause he's prefferin' that dirty weed."

"And now you've gone and subverted another to you're evil ways." A booming voice said from the entryway. "Mistress Hornblower, you are positively wicked."

Petunia squeaked and tossed down the dish towel she'd been carrying then dashed into her husband's warm arms. She threatened him with sooty kisses as he danced away lightly.

"You'd threaten yer love with dragon's breath!" Acron yelled as he skipped backward and stumbled. Petunia was on him in a snap, nibbling ferociously at the narrow tips of his ears until he cried out for mercy.

"Go get them fancy knickers on," Acron purred into her ear.

Sam's face went slack. Frodo grinned. "Uncle tells me there's a party planned in town this evening."

"We're goin' dancin!" Petunia squealed and spun out of Acron's arms. "Oh! Wait wait wait…the lads…"

Acron looked at Sam and Frodo. Sam and Frodo looked back. "They look fine! Don't be gussy'in' up what's good to begin with, Pet!"

Frodo regarded the rough felt breeches and over sized peasant shirt Acron loaned him for work. Sam, as always, was wearing homespun. As an afterthought, Frodo said to him, "Don't you think you might wish to change into something less… abrasive?"

Sam started chewing on something wedged in his cheek. "I'm no made o' chafey stuff, thank you very much," he said, then spit something dark and awful into a big jug by his feet.

Frodo's eyes grew wide. Petunia made a hawking sound, and spit out a mass that followed Sam's. The metal side of the jug sounded a double 'ting'. Whatever Frodo was about to say flew straight out of his mind.

Acron laughed until his sides ached. When he recovered, he said, "'Tis not a crowd for finery. Yer both right as you are…" then stopped as his wife picked up her skirts then dashed down the hallway. "Pet! Hey now!"

"Hush, you!" came the reply from behind a door. "Or I'll tell of how much time ye use 'ta spend in a mirror or two a'fore a dance, puttin' that smelly grease all in yer hair and whatnot, and leavin' no less than four buttons loose on that lovely chest. Hah!" A door banged open, then shut. Petunia swore politely, then banged on something else.

"Grease…for hair? Is that right?" Frodo said, wondering why anyone would do that.

"Gaffer did that when he were courtin' me mam." Sam looked at Acron. "You're not havin' any?"

Acron shook his head. "Don't ask _me_, lad. I just live here."

Petunia emerged from the hallway with a fine linen shirt folded over each arm. She held one up against Sam's chest, liked what she saw, and then handed it to him along with a set of braces. The other shirt she gave to Frodo.

Frodo shook the shirt out lengthwise before him. The peasant blouse was exquisite, the color of growing wheat, with fine embroidery circling the long, loose sleeves. The cuffs were edged in stiff, cotton facing that enabled the sleeves to flow gently with the slightest movement. The throat was just a low enough to be inviting, but was far from salacious. There were no buttons, only wide, soft buttery leather laces that crossed loosely across the front. There were no braces, for surely, Frodo didn't need any. The shirt was meant to be tucked loosely into tight breeks. The fawn colored set he arrived in was more than appropriate.

Sam's shirt was of the same fine linen, and pale against his sun bronzed flesh. The throat was cut daringly low. His wide, firm chest could support the greater opening. With a little tingle of glee, Sam realized it was very similar to his clever nightshirt, but with elegant, thin strips of embroidery that highlighted the opening, rather than concealing it. His braces were of a deep, pine green, as were the clasps. The color quicked the hazel in his eyes, and the broad straps hugged the smooth contours of his chest. His rough, dun colored breeks lent him a roguish air beneath the loose fabric of the shirt.

Petunia dug down in her skirt pockets, and produced four matching velvet garters; two of a lush, midnight blue, and two of a darker green that complimented Sam's braces.

"Oh, stars," Acron groaned. Petunia shooed him away to go wash up.

"Yer wearin' 'em here," she said, and then tied one around the top of her arm. "If a lassie finds ye charmin' enough, she'll set a flower in 'yer garter…"

"What are these?" Frodo said as he took the blue set for himself.

"Yer no' married, aye?" Petunia chuckled. "All who's not spoken for dances with those alike. Keep's things a might civil. Jus' an old country custom."

"What's the flower mean?" Sam was suddenly nervous.

Petunia laughed so hard she nearly swallowed her plug. "Nothin', Gamwich. Nothin' more than a wish to dance. Whatever _do_ they get up to in Hobbiton I'm wonderin'?"

"Nothing so touching, and honest," Frodo said as he twisted the garter around his hand.

"Well, tonight me bonny laddies, yer both Princes o' the Longbottom, and the pride of Ol' Toby's kin. May all the blessin's o' the Mother rain down on ye, for make no mistake, 'yer both the best thing these lassie's seen in while…" she paused to consider something as she gazed into Frodo's pale, sapphire eyes,"…mebee, ever." This seemed to satisfy her.

Petunia and Acron led the processional to the party field in Longbottom. Both wore a measure of finery that humbled Frodo's natty traveling coat. Petunia wore a flouncy dress of peach watered silk that opened at her wrists to reveal a second layer of cream-colored lace beneath. More lace was twined into her hair in that curious manner southern ladies favored. Just enough russet curls peeked through to be enticing, just enough were covered to lend mystery. Across her throat she wore a string of matched pearls, creamy and white, each the size of a thumbnail. Acron was permitted to find the 'hair 'fixin' grease' and apply it to his own chestnut curls. His clothes were simple, but tailored and made of the finest milled cotton and sleek, heavily embroidered suede. His wore a delicate gold chain across his weskit that led to an elaborate pocket watch on his breast. He checked it from time to time, and Frodo thought he did it to enjoy the filigreed cover sliding against the thick calluses on his hands.

Petunia dressed Sam and Frodo's hair with just a whisper of scented grease. The slippery stuff picked up the rich luster of Frodo's dark curls, drew out the sun in Sam's. They walked together across the fields, through brief stands of pine, enjoying their progress down a narrow forest path. Frodo remembered that this was how the gray elves often traveled, in happy silences broken only by song as they drifted across the woody end, on their way to glorious gatherings beneath the sacred light of stars.

When they reached the edge of the party field, bonfires were already burning, and long tables were set up all along the perimeter. Carts and horses stood nearby an assortment of colorful tents. The Longbottom was filled with stock traders and herds, all down for the early spring markets. All the Southfarthing traders had spilled over for the party, bringing the best of their wares with them. The aroma of roasted lamb was thick around the tents, suckling pigs turned on skewers over communal pits, and rows of pies, tarts, and all manner of baked wonder lined the dining area where many hobbits had already gathered. Kegs of ale, homebrews, spring wines and beer sat atop stones stationed close by. Hundreds of hobbits, at least ten score or better, milled busily in the field, with more carts trundling in from the nearby town.

Acron squired Petunia on his arm, and proudly led the group past the tables. Leaf farmers and their families looked on with skeptical curiosity at Sam and Frodo. Strangers from outside the valley were usually well vetted before appearing in public. Acron swelled with pride as he showed off his guests. His presence did much to relax the others, for he was well trusted.

Sam felt and looked like a true prince. He didn't look anything different from Frodo, not even age-wise. Frodo was a full seven years older than he was, and so much more cultured, experienced, and confident around folk he didn't know. Now they looked just the same, like two lads from different families, surely, but there was no way anyone would mistake that high born face for one of Sam's brothers or cousins. Suddenly, Sam didn't think it was right like this. He shouldn't be lying to others about who he was by wearing such nice clothes, and walking with such fine folk like he was one of them.

Petunia seemed to catch his thoughts. "None's carin' what yer qualities is above what they can see," she said. "An' you'll be wise to let it rest at that, laddie. Be easy an' have yer fun."

Frodo nodded encouragingly. "Please?"

Sam was so happy he squeaked.

They found a table over by some of the visiting traders. In no time, they had heaped it high with delicious foods from every part of the gathering. Acron brought out a pouch of his infamous 'special blend' and laid it on the table. Much to his consternation, no one touched it. Frodo was reluctant to even look at it.

As the sky darkened and the fires grew high, a stout hobbit approached the table with a monstrous barrel. Easily the girth of three hobbits, and nearly as tall, the thing had wheels attached to its bottom, which made it possible to push across the uneven ground.

"'Mast'uh Hornblower," the hobbit said with a wide grin. Frodo had problems placing his accent. "This here is one of those 'monster casks' you were wanting' made up for export to Bree. Mast'uh Faircloth heard tell of how big they is, and ordered some to salt pork in. I saw you settin' here with Miss Petunia and your guests," he bowed his head respectfully. "and suh, I just _had_ to show you one all done up and finished."

"Aye!" Acron jumped up and inspected the cooper's barrel, running his hand across the fine oak slats. "'Tis perfect."

The cooper kicked a latch somewhere near the bottom, locking the wheels in place. The two fell into a flurry of gestures and strange, drawling words. Frodo listened, but could only catch half the meaning. Petunia drummed her fingers on the table. "He always says, 'Pet, no business. None a'tall'. An' here we be, 'an what happens? Hah. Well, comes the dancin' in a bit." Something sparked her interest. She placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, then shouted, "Look over yonder. Them's the Wainwrights!" Petunia placed two fingers in her mouth and whistled so loud that Frodo had to clap his hands over his ears.

A head perked up in the distance and smiled knowingly. In a few moments, a robust, well-dressed matron wearing a long, scarlet shawl came over to the table. A wide, loose bun of satiny yellow curls was pinned to the top of her head by a cameo. A square of cream lace draped across her hair and shoulders, and her full cheeks were ruddy in the fading light.

"Well I do declare, if it isn't Miss Petunia Hornblower!" She kissed Petunia on both cheeks, then nodded to Acron. He slipped her a wink, before returning to his dealings with the cooper.

"Violet Wainright! I ain't seen hide nor hair o' you since Yule at Fairy Dingle." Petunia gestured to her guests. "This be Acron's nephew by way o' Hobbiton, Master Frodo Baggins, and his friend, Master Samwise Gamgee."

Frodo stood and bowed his head politely. "At your service, Ma'am." Sam followed with a similar greeting of his own.

Violet's eyes perked up a notch. "Well now, young suh, you're a Bucklander if I'm not mistaken, and you there," she tilted her head at Samwise, "that's Gamwich in your face as I live and breath."

There was an elegant poetry to her words that sounded like music to Sam. "Yes'm."

Violet sat next to Petunia then smiled wide at Frodo. "Sugar, have I got someone special for you. I have two daughters, both cute as buttons and sweeter than apple blossoms in the rain. And wouldn't you know, neither one is spoken for?" She looked at Sam. "Both are of that special age when fancy leads a path past reason. Whatever is a poor mother to do? Two lovely girls so full of life, why, they'd just go out dancing every night if they could." She shook her head in mock consternation.

Frodo smiled politely, remembering the garters tied around his arms. Well why not? This was certainly turning out to be more comfortable than that mess of a party in Hobbiton. He could use a night of dancing and laughter, as could Sam.

Sam looked over at him, wondering if he had any idea what he was in for. No matter. He'd do fine, as Frodo did with all things. However, southern girls were just a tiny bit more forward than he thought Frodo was used to. They were certainly wilder than what Sam was used to, but that didn't matter to him now. Well, not much. It was nice to have someone smile at him that way, as Missus Wainwright was smiling at him now, like she was wondering if he would end the night with one of her daughters? Sam knew he wouldn't – his heart was firmly spoken for, but being flirted with was nice. No one here cared that he was just a common laborer without a copper to his name. But what if Frodo didn't take it that way? Would he grow jealous if he danced too close with one of the lasses, or flirted back with one or two?

Frodo's looked at him. _'You do anything you want, Sam. You have all the fun you want'_ his eyes seemed to say. Sam relaxed, and felt the anticipation start to beat faster in his blood. There were so many of them, and he looked so fine…

"Now, Violet, the lads is jus' here for the dancin'. Nothin' more."

"They haven't seen my Pansy, or my sweet Goldie Bell," she winked, and then fell to chatting with Petunia.

Across the clearing, hobbits shuffled back into groups. A band of musicians set up a platform on the opposite side of the bonfires. Nearer to the center, a hobbit wearing a wide brimmed straw hat climbed up a set of steps to an elevated podium. All around the clearing the crowds began to cheer.

"Get up, get up, it's fixin' to start!" Mrs. Wainwright said as she pushed Sam up from the seat. "Get where they all can see you."

The hobbit on the podium raised his arms and sang out a wild, keening note that was answered with yips and yaws from the crowd. Petunia stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled for all she was worth. Several whistles floated back to her.

"Come and get your Paaaarrrtneers!" the hobbit yelled, and then the field bust into a motion.

Petunia tugged on the back of Frodo's shirt. "That's the caller. Yer doin' whatever he says. Now both o' you, wait until a lass sticks a flower in yer garter."

Sam waited. Frodo looked around impatiently. A great swarm of girls jumped up from tables all around the field, and scattered. Petticoats and lace fairly flew into the air then settled into an orderly row. The girls formed a line, and then one by one, walked slowly past each table.

One girl separated herself from the line. A startled hush went up from the crowd.

"Oh, blast," Petunia said, worried.

"Is that who I think it is?" Violet added.

The girl walked diagonally across the field, past the bonfires, in violation of the rules of the gathering. She appeared headed for the Hornblower's table. Acron looked up to see the source of the commotion. He laughed, then went back to talking to the cooper, with whom he'd nearly reached agreement.

"Yes it is," Petunia said with a sigh. "An' quite naturally, she's comin' to call on us."

"Like her mother did," Violet nodded.

"'Afore I scrapped wi' her a time or two," Petunia growled. "That cured it, right fast."

The girl was tall and proud. She wore a tea length white gown that accented the peculiar paleness of her legs. Frodo squinted in the dim light. When she drew close enough for him to focus, he saw that she bore no fur on the tops of her feet. He'd never seen such a thing before, and it left him strangely fascinated. She noticed him watching her. A soft blue lace fan snapped open in front of her face. It fluttered prettily as she peeked over the edge.

She stood before the table, one pale green eye tilting over lace. A crown of white gardenias was woven into her thick, black hair.

"Well, hello there, Petunia, Violet." Her voice was a rich contralto, filled with a strange music that sent a flutter through Sam's belly.

"Diamond Split Toe," Petunia answered. "What brings you here abouts?" She sounded like she was talking about a particularly vile smell.

"Oh, nothing much," said the voice behind the fan. "I said to myself, 'Diamond, it's just too hot to sleep', and then I thought, 'there's a dance down in the party field tonight, and that just might cool you off '." The fan pointed at Frodo. "It's very warm for such a lovely spring night, don't you think?"

"Now that you mention it, I suppose it is rather warm." He smiled, and made sure that his cheeks crinkled up just enough to show off the cleft in his chin.

Sam managed a nod.

Diamond shut the fan with a 'snick', then looped the cord around her wrist. Her face was heart shaped, and the hand that plucked the gardenia from her hair was smooth and pale. She slipped the flower into Frodo's garter.

"Well now," her laugh was sultry. "I'm afraid I don't know your name." This was a jibe at Petunia, who had not said a word.

"Frodo Baggins, at your pleasure."

Sam heard the change in Frodo's voice. This was the voice he used for important things, like speeches, or when Sam wished to hear it on nights when fire rushed under his skin. Diamond understood that voice. Missus Hornblower did too; he could see it in her eyes. Sam felt something turn over in his heart. That voice belonged to him, and only him. But that wasn't true, it couldn't be, no more than Sam could put a flower into Frodo's garter and then dance with him alone, all night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Southfarthing Tales Part 5

**Sometimes a hobbit's gotta do what a hobbit's gotta do.**

**Author & email address**: Feather Silver - , LJ address: feather-silver./

**Pairing**: Frodo/Sam

**Rating**: PG – 13 for distressing language, slash, leaf-use

**Summary**: Sam and Frodo take part in the dance, each with different partners. Frodo resolves some issues from his past, while Sam wallows in the company of the Southern ladies.

Sam watched Frodo stride away with the girl. It occurred to him he should be upset, jealous, or worried about his future. He was none of these things, and that bothered him. Weird divergences in behavior were becoming far too ordinary. Coping was something of a sport with Sam; the more he did it, the better he got. Sam took a deep breath and then started to go over what he actually knew about Frodo Baggins.

How did other people see him? Polite, mysterious, vague. There was something very attractive about someone you couldn't quite figure out. In seeking familiarity, you often caught little flashes of yourself. Some part of Frodo intuited this, enhanced it, until all that was left was a lovely mirror that everybody liked. Sam wasn't everybody; he knew Frodo. Frodo was not beautiful. He didn't have that sunshiny glow most hobbits carried effortlessly, as if the earth were a grand pasture and they were all flowers. He lived almost entirely inside his head.

And it hurt him to be outside of his head where the rest of the flowers went on without thinking about much of anything. This was why he was sad at times. The longer Frodo was away from privacy, the more he realized the world wasn't quite like he thought it was, and that the world really didn't know what to make of him, either.

Sam looked back over the past week until he found a name, Edlyn Took. She was the girl in Buckland. The Master's wife probably thought she had done Frodo a favor by finding someone to pair him off with so early, before he knew who he wanted, or if he wanted anyone at all. The injustice was galling. No one stopped it. Sam quickly coughed and shuffled before anyone caught on to his thoughts. The women were watching him, and he didn't trust them to let things be.

He opened his eyes. Frodo looked back at him as he walked away. '_Let me do this, let me find out what went wrong_'. Sam curled his lip. Frodo would stick his head into a dragon's maw to check if it's teeth were sharp. He couldn't seem to learn things any other way. Selfish tosser, toff git with an over-enthusiastic sense of melodrama. _Why?_ Sam groaned and bit his knuckles. He knew why. Frodo didn't trust himself, thought all trouble began and ended with him. He was trapped inside his own mirror.

Now he was stopped and the girl was tugging at his shirt, persuading him to hurry on. Frodo leveled his gaze. '_Tell me now, and I will quit_.' Sam considered turning his back. This wasn't just wrong, it was stupid. If he did nothing, sometime later, maybe years from now, Frodo would certainly end up doing this with someone else. Sam made a decision. He locked onto Frodo's eyes. Anger twisted with consent: _'Be my fucking guest'._

Diamond knew her way around the field. She didn't look down when she walked, not even when the light failed completely and only flickers of scattered flame lit the way. Her hand was wrapped tightly around Frodo's. She was guiding him, and he thought that was strange. At dances in Buckland, he was the one who led. In Hobbiton, structure remained some odd idea that never caught on. Southfarthing ladies must lead, then. He made a note of this so he wouldn't embarrass himself later.

The music started and she still hadn't spoken. The other girls looked daggers at her, and she took it like this was the nature of her life. People didn't like her. Frodo found this an attractive quality. It took courage to be different in a world filled with conformists. He smirked, and then chastised himself for being dull. He didn't know any of these people, barely understood their words. Diamond ignored them, or appeared to. She did not allow petty things to annoy her. Focused. She turned lovely eyes to his. Diamond wanted to dance.

They swept into a breathless waltz: effortless movement, floating with a dreamlike quality derived from years of careful practice. She was wind in his arms, her waist tiny, and very warm beneath his hands. She smiled, and he sailed over the moon. Everyone was watching. They had no idea who he was. The freedom was intoxicating. Diamond laughed, and then permitted him to lead.

A cloud of smoke settled over Samwise. The stuff didn't taste nearly as bad as it smelled. The stars looked a little bleary, and Petunia was laughing with Violet as the parade of girls drew closer. Acron had drifted off. The sky was strangely open and full of crystal dots of light. Stars. Frodo said the elves sang songs to souls that drifted in the stars. Fantastic. Sam pulled on the pipe, held the smoke in, then let it trail slowly out of his nose. He was a halfling. Half of what? Half elf? Half man? Half tall? Who bloody knew? Gandalf. Sam crinkled his nose. What sort of fanny that one was after was likely disturbing, legendary, or distressingly weird. Did Wizards care to sample the gentle arts? Sam barked laughter and snorted until Petunia pounded his back.

"I am a halfling, and a damn sexy beast," Sam declared. Acron whistled salaciously. "Were that a compliment, Master Hornblower?"

"Absolutely."

Sam nodded. "Right, then."

Someone stuck two flowers in his garter. Sam stared at them. "Hello, hello?"

Twins. Both pleasingly round and swimming with bouncy laughter. Sam felt like growling and showing them his teeth. He liked fat bottoms, especially if they matched.

Mrs. Wainright was talking. "Pansy, Goldie Bell!"

"That Split-Toe piece just went and cut the line like that…"

"…and so we just had to."

"Momma, don't be mad."

"Everyone started doing it, just everyone!"

Sam had no idea which was which and didn't care. "There's enough Samwise Gamgee to go around. No need to fuss."

"Then whatever are you _waiting_ for?" Acron needled.

"Go get yerself lined up quick-like o' else the rest will be takin' all the best spots by the players." Petunia took the pipe out of his mouth.

Soft fingers threaded into his, and then Sam was off in a swirl of honeysuckle giggles.

Diamond was talking. Frodo enjoyed watching her mouth move. Syllables slipped away with a gently slurred cadence that reminded him of song. He liked to sing. Maybe she would sing with him later?

"Whatever are you looking at?" she said, but she knew. She tilted her head then looked over his shoulder at someone else. She smiled and lifted her skirts a fraction higher. The breeze slipped beneath gauzy frills and threw them into the air. Frodo felt a number of eyes fix on her. Diamond laughed, and he spun her around to hear the music wind around him in a circle.

"Where are you from? I mean, originally. You dance beautifully." It was essential not to stare. He grew nervous when anyone looked at him directly for too long. Diamond appeared to love it.

"Sam Ford," she said, and eased into a gentler rhythm. "My daddy owns a bourbon distillery down by the great mud. You all do drink bourbon up in there in Hobbiton?"

"Oh yes, it's marvelous. Your family is quite talented." There was something special about Sam Ford. Ah, the ranger station! Men lived on the border of the great marshes, keeping fell creatures away from the southernmost reaches of the Shire. The swamps were filled with secrets, lost cities, and strange birds. That part of the Shire was isolated and by most accounts, a little crude. The hobbits there liked to ride and hunt, take the hides of the animals they killed and stuff them. Frodo vaguely remembered a picture in one of Bilbo's atlases of a deer head suspended over a mantle.

"Do you ride?" Frodo asked. "For sport?"

"Ride _and_ jump! Not sidesaddle, either."

Frodo didn't know what that was. There was something else he wanted to know. Diamond was quite tall for a hobbit. Even as they danced, he felt she was better than a head taller than he was. "Steeple chases," he said, as his mind worked over the puzzle.

Diamond appeared surprised. "Why, yes. My daddy owns the best racers this side of Bree. There's a mighty fine track set up down there. My brothers raise hunters – blue tick hounds that are sharper than arrows and fly like eagles after foxes, raccoons, swamp hens, pheasant; we take in all sorts of game." She fluttered her lashes. "I didn't think they were many hunters in the north."

"There aren't. Some of my relations are Tooks, and they enjoy hunting."

"Tookland." She said it as if it were a place she'd enjoy going. "There may be hope for the North, after all."

Velvet crushing against lace. By the mother's dangly teat, there were hundreds of them. Was this dancing? Sam guessed so. More like the biggest, scariest dab party in the whole of the world. There weren't enough males. When he saw one, he would reach out in a desperate attempt to gain understanding. What gives? The eyes that met his were usually filled with terror.

Pansy and Goldie Bell were ruthless. They wanted to show him off to every girl they'd ever met. They insisted he dance with both of them at the same time. He could handle that. Back in Hobbiton, at Yule, when everyone got a little trashed, dances frequently turned into free-for- all's with hobbits stumbling around in piles. Somewhere in the histories – some idiot in Michel Delving or one of the Tooks would know - hobbits must have roamed in herds. Hobbits had a herd mentality, walked around hugging each other, and never grew out of it. Left alone, hobbits would go on all fours, bark to each other from inside holes in the ground, sniff the air for signs of trouble. Some did. No one talked about it. Hobbits were vehemently in denial of anything that tied them to the slightest suggestion of a base nature. Sam wasn't. Pansy and Goldie bell did not appear to be, either, and that suited him just fine.

The women were growing vicious. Feminine competition drove them to madness. There was no way in all the Shire Pansy or Goldie Bell were going to let him go. His hands were trapped in lacquered claws, his feet were sore from dancing, and somewhere behind him, the caller was babbling like a prophet, crying out unnatural rhythms that encouraged a crazed frenzy.

Something powerful stirred in Sam. The call of his ancestors beat madly through his blood. Pansy and Goldie Bell started to lift their knees and shriek in that bizarre, Southern way. He bellowed back, grabbed up a set of healthy flanks under each arm, and spun them around until they both screamed in his ears. Someone grabbed his ass. Samwise threw back his head and shouted triumph into the night, while the girls fairly ripped the straps off his chest. He didn't care. They could tear his clothes away, pull them into rags, strip him naked while they fought and tussled, tore out each other's hair, snatched off that bothersome, scratchy lace, slashed their bodices to ribbons and snarled like feral cats. Once reduced to naked hunger, Samwise would tame the wild herd, service all of them to a lass, to ensure the survival of hobbit-kind.

"Buck up, m'lad! There's work to be done!" He called out to a startled male about to take to his heels. "They won't quick on their own, and that's a fact!"

Pansy and Goldie Bell were jubilant. They cooed and struggled meekly against his chest, made circlets with their fingers in his hair. "Samwise Gamgee!" They sang out his name and rocked their heavy thighs against his. They took turns kissing the top of his head, his nose, the corners of his mouth. Goldie Bell, being the more aggressive, locked her delicate hands on both his ears then kissed the breath right out of him. He sister then performed likewise.

Sam's head caved in.

Frodo and Diamond found their way to the edges of the gathering. The noise and smells were quieter there. Above, the stars circled around the moon in little clusters, their bright light piercing and so very remote. Frodo sighed. Diamond moved closer. She was quicksilver running through his arms – rich, gardenia scented, and smooth as fine satin. He ran his fingers beneath her damp locks, felt the pulse skip up in her throat. He smiled warmly, let his eyes spark blue fire as she pressed her cheek against his and felt the laughter building there. Oh yes, she was lovely, and ever so eager to lay with him in the soft grass. He wanted to. Every pinprick that skidded across his flesh begged him to do it.

She kissed him, and he murmured pleasantly. Southern ladies were _quite_ direct. Frodo got the distinct impression Diamond traveled these fields quite often. Marvelous. He'd be spared stumbling around like an idiot looking for a spot not filled with mud, hobbits, or both. He cupped her breast, felt the high, proud flesh slip beneath his hands, tight rounded peaks roll between his fingers. It was years since he'd touched a girl this way, and he hoped he wasn't too rough, forward, or a thousand other things that plagued him in the company of women. Diamond relaxed, looked up from under her thick lashes. She pulled his shirt away from his breeches. The air was cool on his sweaty back, and her hands were sure and light. No, this wasn't a problem at all. She found him attractive; he could smell her scent rising past the whisper of gardenias. Pride danced in Frodo's eyes as he began that slow, smooth glide up tender flanks that moved so gently beneath his touch. Her eyes were slick, green jewels.

"_Gethsemane_," Frodo said, because this was how he made love.

Diamond pulled her head back. "What?"

"It was a garden in Almaren, the ancient home of the Valar." Words spilled from thought, "A place of 'splitting'. Melkor turned against his brethren there, then swore to destroy all they created."

"Split?" Her voice was hard. "I'm not 'split'. What do you mean?"

Truth shattered his mood. Diamond was bereft of complexity, and did not wish to understand. She existed only in the now, as did the trees and fields around her. Mystery was meaningless to her. She found everything she wanted in herself, just as a pond found no admiration for the fish that swam through it. There was nothing more to Diamond; there didn't need to be. She was quite beautiful on her own, and sought only to involve herself in those things she found beautiful in order to compliment herself. Puzzle pieces flew together in Frodo's brain, and before he could stop himself, he said, "You are half-caste. Daughter of man, and hobbit."

Diamond punched him so hard, he felt his nose snap.

"Split that, you short bastard," she said, and walked away.

Sam was awash in a sea of soft lips, wet delights, shaky giggles and purring promises. Sam cried out, sure that his soul was in terrific peril. His mind plunged into a rush of shadows, dark laughter and hidden ways. Temptresses willed the seed from his body, witches whispered peons to fey goddesses. "Yes!" he cried between kisses as he grabbed a juicy behind, and then another. The firelight danced a wicked rhythm in his eyes, in their hair, across the tops of a hundred heads, spraying orange fury high into the satin sky. "Feast on me, ye lovelies, take all ye wish an' more!" he said, and it was everything Sam could do not to throw both girls down and tear that blasted itchy crinoline off with his teeth.

From across the gathering, at the edge of the firelight, a set of eyes rested on his cheek. Sam looked up, worried. If _he_ got anywhere near these women, they would pull the meat from his bones, make parasols from his flesh, use his tendons to hold together their corsets. They would use his hair to stuff their pillows, use his eyes for scrying, his fingers to hold open mysterious tomes. They were dangerous and caught in a fever of lust. They would disappear in the morning, like ghosts.

"That's quite the orgy you've got there!" came the call across the field.

Yes, it was. Why, even now, Pansy was nipping at his throat, while Goldie Bell was twisting apart the lacings on his breeks. The moment of his disgrace was nearing. They were going to flay him alive, drink off his vital essences, twist his tender flesh into ruins. Heaps of sweaty lace gathered against his bones, and all across the valley, primal voices sang bright hymnals of courage. Sam had to think fast. Twins?

"Aye! Are you _free_, then?" Sam couldn't see the other girl. No matter. Her coven lay all around him. She would rise from among them, tear his heart out with shiny nails, then feed what was left to a cat.

"Quite free, and liking to _stay_ that way, if that's fine with you, mate."

Sam thought he saw him rub at his face. Poor bugger. They'd marked him a heretic. Sam's heart grew heavy. He brushed aside his anger. Gently, he set both Pansy and Goldie Bell down on their pretty toes. "I regret to inform you that I must attend to duty," he said seriously. Both girls pewled miserably. "Come now, that's not befitting of such fine women as yourselves. Carry on, now. Carry on."

Goldie bell snatched off one of his garters. "We'll carry on, sugar, you just bet."

Pansy snatched away the other. "We'll just keep these, for now. You know where they are, if you want them later."

"Goodbye, Samwise Gamgee." Goldie Bell pouted, then took her sisters hand. They both walked away into the firelight.

Sam felt gravely disappointed.

"I'm a short bastard," Frodo declared. He was smoking Acron's weed. Sam thought he must have circled back around to the table. One of his eyes was swollen half-shut, and there were drops of red on his shirt. There was a big lump in the middle of his face where his nose used to be. He looked happy.

"So bein' a confirmed shirt-lifter didn't factor in?" Sam took the pipe out of Frodo's fingers, and smoked. "A bit off our mark?"

"Rather outmatched. Things that are so … obvious to most, escape me." He cocked an eyebrow. "Are you going to hit me? Everyone seems to enjoy hitting me."

"I might." Sam pulled deeply on the pipe, considering.

"I thought you'd understand?" Frodo, to his credit, appeared contrite.

Sam laughed. "Sorry, mate. That's gone a bit stale on me."

Frodo changed the subject. "You have enjoyed yourself this merry evening?"

"Wicked. Demented. Daft as a box of frogs. A bit mean, truth be told. T'were a challenge."

"Fun, don't you think?" His voice was nasally. Sam handed him a handkerchief. "I dare say the hitting part is over-rated. Best to get it over with and move on."

Sam agreed. "'Tis a thing to beggar lesser hobbits."

"Quite a lot of beggaring going on in the bushes." Frodo chuckled. "Have you noticed yourself, lately?"

Sam looked down, then quickly pulled his laces together. His braces were somewhere over his shoulder; the special shirt, in crisis. Sweat was draining from every pore, and he thought he might stink. Frodo caught a whiff, and grinned.

"Servicing the herd?"

"The things you remember." The stars reclaimed a fractured, drowsy tilt. Frodo made a noise. Sam winced. "Mate, that has to hurt…"

Frodo took one of his garters off. Gardenias tumbled to the ground. "In the morning, I shall likely have to shove my face into a bucket of Petunia's ice. You'll be there?" He took Sam's hand.

"Yes," Sam said as he watched Frodo tie the garter around his wrist, then loop it back over his own. "I don't get a flower?"

"You want a flower?" Frodo snugged up the knot.

"Looks to be popular."

"Sod popular, if you'll forgive the expression." Frodo took the last gardenia out of his remaining garter. A fey light glowed in his eyes that could mean the stars were on fire, the ground was about to crack open, or that elves were moving across the silver floor of the valley, singing praises to distant lights. Frodo stuffed the gardenia in his mouth, tore into it with his teeth. He rocked, snarled and ripped, sprayed flecks of white throughout the greasy tangle of his hair and down into the grass. Heaving, sweating, and swollen, Frodo uttered a high pitched, keening squeak that reminded Sam of a pine marten in full rut.

"Do you know what that sound is, m'dear?" Acron pointed across the field to where Sam and Frodo were kissing.

"Hobbits should not squeak so!" Mrs. Wainright admonished. "It's not fitting."

Petunia squinted, then made a filthy noise. "I've ears and eyes, Master Hornblower."

"That's the backrub yer owin' me, Missus Hornblower, wi' oil, and no bloomers," Acron laughed. He kicked at the barrel by his side. "I tol' you the day they showed, an' I'm tellin' you now, there's no hope for them's not willin'. Like as you may, they've only eyes for each other." He pointed across the field with his chin. Frodo had sprung up and locked himself onto Sam's chest. After a dicey moment, Sam got his balance, then rushed away past the edge of the clearing. Acron nodded approvingly. "See? I tol' you so, Pet."

"They're so young." Petunia sighed defeat. "I would'a hoped they'd play a bit a'fore settlin' down to comfort. Yer only young once."

Mrs. Wainright spied her daughters flashing by the players. "Speaking of sights, will you just look at _that__!_" Each girl wore one green garter stuffed with flowers. A third girl danced between them.

"This is the third time now, eh?" Petunia said as the girls swept by. "You'll not get those three out o' the heather a'fore mornin', make no mistake."

"If they insist on wearing garters, they will wear ones that match their gowns. Those two will be the death of me yet! Two whole _days_ I labored over matching sashes to ribbons, laces to petticoats, bonnets to bows, and this is how I am thanked!" Mrs. Wainright was incensed.

"I 'ent never goin' to get the blood stains outta that shirt." Petunia patted her friend's hand.

"Ye' had to dye it wi' leaf to get the damn thing one color after I wore it a time or two, missy. Ye' can do it again." Acron rubbed his jaw. "What is it about them Split-Toe women that makes for fightin' so _hard_?"

"Men," Petunia huffed. "'Tis a violence that comes not o' high spirit, but from greed. All that's their own, stays so, e'en pretty looks and ways. Trouble follows that blood as sure as worry."

Mrs. Wainright made a sign of warding. "May it ever remain out of mind, and out of reach."

"Enough o' this now. Come now, Pet, let's be away. Set some food out, let the lads find their own way home. Violet, we'll be walkin' you back to Fairy Dingle, then." Acron blew out his cheeks and stood. "I'll be sayin' hello to Hanson, while we're there."

"You'll be getting' him on this leaf scheme o' yours." Petunia clucked her tongue. "No business, eh?"

"I'm knackered, and wantin' me backrub. Nothin' more."

"If you're too tired for that back rub, then sir, perhaps it can wait…" Petunia's eyes crinkled up knowingly.

Acron chuckled, grabbed his wife by the hand, then spun her into his arms. "Whist, missy. There's parts is tired an' parts that ain't never, an I aim to remind you o' each."


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Southfarthing Tales Part 5

**Love grows where my Rosemary goes, and nobody knows, like me**

**Author & email address**: Feather Silver - feather.silver , LJ address: feather-silver./

**Pairing**: Frodo/Sam

**Rating**: NC-17 for Male Slash (and a very very brief mention of fem slash)

**Warning**: Slash/explicit sex

**Summary**: Sam and Frodo return from the Southfarthing to Hobbiton. On the way, Frodo shares some of Bilbo's last notes with Sam.

The next morning Frodo and Sam left the Hornblower farm with heavy hearts. Acron and Petunia waved after the cart sadly, as if a dream of their own were also leaving down the wagon trace, where it would remain terrifically out of reach.

Frodo kept a thick bag of ice pressed to his face. After bathing his bruises in asper bark and hot water, Sam concluded that Frodo's nose was not broken. The swelling was no less fantastic, and gave his face a bloated, yellowish tinge that the asper bark did nothing to relieve. Frodo was filled with wit and dry humor concerning his injuries, until he considered the consequences; Sam's father would not be amused. Who the responsible party was did not matter. Sam was Frodo's body servant, gardener, cook and vassal. Any damage done to Frodo reflected poorly on the quality of Sam's service, and his family's reputation.

In the heat of the noonday sun, with a cool face pressed against his shoulder, the reality of Sam's situation seemed so very far away, but then again, so was Hobbiton. He found himself slipping back into the safety of his own thoughts. For many years, an ingrained sense of propriety stayed Sam's tongue and bound his mind to the present. He liked to think this was best. His father constantly reminded him that little things were all he could hope for, and to ask for more was to invite trouble. As a consequence, most of Sam's life was spent in a mundane, twilight world where only the brightest stars pierced the canopy of his servile existence. Things might have continued this way, but for Frodo. He brought light into Sam's otherwise predictable life. Above all else, Frodo respected him, and encouraged his mind to develop beyond what was suitable for a hobbit of Sam's station. Sam knew Frodo would never understand the incredible freedom this gave him, or the heavy burden that came along with it.

At Pincup they parked the trap and decided to spend the night. Frodo had business with the innkeeper, and Sam wanted to make sure all of their belongings were snug and fast. Acron had given them several casks of his best reserves, including some of his special blend. Sam ran his hand warmly over the oak cask, remembering Longbottom, the dance, and the heady, slow night's tumble through damp, tall grasses. Petunia insisted he keep the special shirt because it favored his heavy build. Now Sam had two shirts he fancied for the same reason.

As he went up the stairs to the room Frodo had let, Sam's mind reflected back on the past week. He thought he knew Frodo better now, and that he was being permitted to know him. Since dragging him back from the field the night before, something else had changed. A deep, abiding respect lingered in Frodo's eyes. He listened more attentively to Sam, as if his words held more importance than they did a week ago. Frodo loved him; Sam knew this without question. However, it was odd to see him wearing it on his face, feel it fix into his manner and become part of their shared life.

Frodo had spread out some stationary on a little table in the corner. Sam guessed that he was going to be working for a while, and so he made to leave Frodo to his privacy. Frodo beckoned him to sit, and listen.

"Before we get home, I want you to see something." Frodo looked as if he had been struggling with a decision. Sam pulled up a chair and sat next to him. "First, let me tell you what I am doing. You know that Bilbo had dealings with Dwarves and Elves during his travels in Erebor. After his return, he maintained a healthy correspondence with many of them. Some perished during the battle of the five armies. However, Uncle managed to make new connections with those who rose to power by trading news back and forth out of the Shire. He was quite well informed, possibly more so than Gandalf on some matters." Frodo showed him a stack of envelopes with strange seals and odd scripts, most in languages Sam knew only fragments of. "These are rather current, but there are many far older. Over the last few weeks, I have sent letters to each, telling of Bilbo's departure, catching up on news, sending on salutations and greetings…"

"Master Bilbo was always mindful of occasions like that. I'm thinkin' he had the birthday o' every hobbit that ever lived in his mind, so's he'd remember to send blessings and not be caught out. Ain't never seen him miss a one, not even Lobelia's," Sam pressed his lips together. "Why'd you bring all that?"

"Because I am going to sell these people leaf, Sam." Frodo looked at Sam with a slow seriousness that edged on desperation. Sam was instantly confused.

"I am going to sell them Acron's leaf, and more, at a profit." Frodo went on. "I've invited persons of special interest to the Shire moot at Michel Delving, where I'll sell my shares in the crop I have purchased. Each portion they purchase will represent a number of casks."

"Before it's away from the ground?" Sam shook his head. "Frodo, however do you figure that? It don't seem fittin' to ask those wantin' to buy a crop to pay for it before they can even see it. It sounds like…" He blew out his cheeks, then decided honesty would serve best. "…trickery."

"Yes." Frodo shifted in the chair. He appeared bruised at his ability to outwit his own kind, as if in discovering an aptitude for cruelty, Frodo had lost something vital.

Without understanding why, Sam shivered and put his hand on Frodo's knee. "No one else will have Old Toby? Like it were … spoiled or summat."

Frodo nodded sadly, and Sam thought he could feel him receding into secrets.

"That's going to make every pub in the Shire go daft inside a month." Sam rushed to fill the silence. "You're on about sewin' panic. Old Toby's reliable as sunrise, to be sure, but likely them's wantin' it will forget soon enough."

"Old Toby will sell for ten times what Acron is asking by Halimath."

"Because there's none to be had, except by you."

"And those I sell shares in the crop to." Frodo looked tired. One hand made to move back to his books while the other settled on top of Sam's. Gently, Sam cradled cool fingers inside his warm palm, entreating him to continue. Frodo met his eyes, then gave a hoarse, rigid laugh. "I mean to provoke their greed."

"Why?"

Frodo did not answer. He took back his hand then dug through a pile of slender books, selected one bound in blue leather then opened it to a spot he had marked. "Now, this I did not wish to share with you before, because…" He sighed and leaned back in the chair, searching for words.

Sam attempted to look eager. "Go on, then."

Frodo opened the book to the last page Bilbo had written on. In a thin, childish scrawl, one terrific word was written over and again with such a crazed intensity, Sam thought he could see the precise spot where the nib tore away from the pen. The writing did not stop there. Bilbo had dipped his finger into the ink and continued. At the bottom of the page, the word mixed with splotches of ink and a bizarre, shaky scrawl, which repeated until it ran off the edges of the paper. Samwise dimly remembered stains on Bilbo's desk, red stains mixed with dry, black ink.

_Precious, precious, precious,preciouspreciouspreciouspreciouspreciouspre_…

Frodo closed the book. He was strangely calm. "On the preceding page is the date of the party. Bilbo was writing an inventory of the things in his desk, his dresser, all the wardrobes in the smial, even mine. He inventoried the kitchen, the cutlery, everything he could reach. I don't think he would have stopped at all, Sam, but for a wish to write that damned word over and over again." After a long moment, Frodo sucked in his breath and said: "All things being equal, I'd say he was more than a little mad, and quite ready to disappear."

Ten more leagues to Hobbiton, and Sam was feeling blue. He'd retreated from his shock over the horrible writings in the book by caring for Frodo. The candles had burned low in the close room as Frodo worked over his journals and notes, only stopping for food at Sam's insistence. When Frodo came to bed, he was exhausted. He slept fitfully, and had woken several times in the night to mumble something, and then find a bit of paper to write his thoughts down on before returning. It was unlike Frodo to carry his distractions into bed like this; he usually slept log-like and still, mouth open and gawking at the ceiling. He woke before Sam, washed and started to pull his things together quickly. Sam sat in bed and watched him for a while as a growing sense of unease settled into his bones.

Thankfully, the swelling in Frodo's face had subsided. Bluish-purple marks still stood brightly out upon his pale, worn skin. Responsibility was dragging him low again, leeching the color from his eyes. Sam could only watch and look after the pony. The slow, binding dread of what unknown troubles lie ahead gnawed at Sam's thoughts.

"Hey," Frodo said softly as he curled beneath Sam's arm. "What's the worry?"

Sam smiled. "Nothing. Just you sleep a bit. We'll be home shortly."

Frodo twisted in the seat. "No. You won't tell me, then? Why are you so close with me, Samwise?"

Sam refused to give in. "You've enough on yer plate without me addin' in. 'Tis nothing. Sleep some."

"No." Frodo was not convinced. He pushed back stray curls from Sam's neck, then kissed him. "Please?"

Sam leaned into the touch, started to say something, and then stopped. "I … can't."

"Because you have your duty," Frodo huffed. "You must look after me. Do you ever wish not to?"

Sam nearly choked. "Of course not!"

"Won't you let me look after you? I _want_ to look after you, Sam."

"But … that's not the way it is. Is it?"

Frodo changed tact. "Would you fancy me if I weren't your employer?"

"Of course I would!"

"Then why won't you let me look after you?"

Faced with this logic, Sam didn't know what to say.

Another brush of soft lips, this time at Sam's temple. Frodo touched his tongue just beneath the scattering of curls, tasted the sun-driven salt. "Let me care for you, as you care for me." He sighed, ran light fingers across Sam's cheek and felt the downy hair nestled at his nape. "It bothers you to see me worried? Eh?"

"Of course it does," Sam said, and leaned into the touch despite his best efforts to maintain his posture. He didn't wish the pony to have her head and run just then, not with the barrels clattering threats in the back. It wouldn't do to jump out of the trap and go chasing casks all over the road so close to home. Someone could gain the crest of the rise ahead, look down and witness chaos with Samwise dashing around at its center.

"It bothers me to see _you_ worried over me, if that makes sense." Frodo laughed dryly and flicked his fingers at Sam's ear. Sam smiled and twisted in the seat. "So let me take care of you for once, all right? Please?"

Frodo could be maddening at times, then equally sweet. A thick blend of emotion poured over Sam as he struggled to keep the reigns in his grasp.

Frodo sensed his confusion, and laughed. "Let them go."

Sam couldn't. He didn't want the trap to bounce about and throw Frodo off the seat. There was a barrier in front of their knees to stop snow and mud from washing over. It wasn't very tall, and Sam doubted that even if Frodo wished to he couldn't squeeze himself behind it. The thought of Frodo crouched between his knees with his head resting in his lap was teasingly wicked. Oh, but there was the damage on Frodo's cheek to consider and of course, the impossible closeness of the space.

Frodo read his mind, grinned mischievously. He moved closer, and then braced one leg against the black steel barrier. His breeks slipped up over his legs, revealing well-muscled calves and heavy, russet-furred feet. Sam's breath caught. The raven dark hair on Frodo's head contrasted sharply with the downy, dark-reddish brown wisps that grew further down on his belly. The fur on his feet was coarse, of the same color and lighter than the tight, deep curls Sam knew so well. Frodo stirred in the seat, gently traced the curve of Sam's chest with one finger. He smiled, and Sam marveled at how Frodo could at once be so naked. Most hobbits used their clothes to conceal all traces of their hedonistic natures, lest they be thought vulgar. They perfumed their bodies with cloying, flowery masks that hid the dark, musky flavor of their flesh. Frodo never used scent. The soaps he preferred were finely milled and mixed with herbs. His sweat tasted sweet; rosemary mixed with the slightest trace of bitter, like lemons left warming in the sun.

A damp heat built up in Sam's cheeks as he struggled to keep the reigns steady. Frodo lounged against him, looked up from under thick lashes with a slow, sensual smile. His movements grew lazy as his hand drifted lower. An electric jolt flared through Sam when Frodo's fingers tugged his shirt loose, then danced across the buttons on his breeks. Sam tried to focus, but could only think of that erotic clutch of fur pressed against the black steel. The patterns reminded him of the bristly tufts above Frodo's sex. His patch was crescent shaped, thickest at its center, and lewdly elegant. Sam loved to feel that thick fur grind against his belly, grow wet and slick with seed, roll beneath his hands as Frodo's flesh pitched and twisted. He loved to bury his face inside the deeper curls, taste his own scent mingled with Frodo's, then savor the sharp change from light to dark as their lust ebbed and flowed.

A breeze flashed across Sam's exposed belly. Frodo slipped his hand further down inside Sam's breeks. With the lightest of touches, he freed Sam's shaft, then held it gently in his hand. Sam closed his eyes and drew air through his nose, while worry ate at his thoughts.

"No one will see. We are still well away from town," Frodo told him patiently as he ran cool fingers up and down Sam's length, drawing out rushes of heat that blossomed into sighs. Sam tipped up his chin, his attention divided between guiding the trap and the rhythm of Frodo's hand.

"Or, do you _wish _that?"

"What?" Sam's thoughts began to slide sideways as Frodo's fingers traced patterns across his foreskin.

"For someone to _see_?"

A jolt of red heat crashed into Sam's brain. Wicked desire mixed with sensation, stealing his reply, but nonetheless, Frodo understood. He chuckled darkly at his new discovery, pressed his face against Sam's cheek. Frodo breathed gently into his ear while working his hand with urgent, feather-light strokes. He kissed the tip of Sam's chin and traced Sam's jaw with the tip of his tongue. Sam turned his head for a kiss.

Frodo drew away. "My timid, sweet Sam. We shall have to trim the jasmine away from the windows, keep a lamp burning brightly next to the sill, and let all of Hobbiton witness our pantomime."

Conflicted, but strangely happy, Sam collapsed into a blush. Frodo kissed his cheeks quickly, then moved his hand lower. "Should you like me to suck you off on the bench by the high grass?" Frodo bit the peak of Sam's breast, flicked his tongue against the hard pebble of flesh beneath the rough linen. Sam's knuckles whitened upon the reigns. "Or perhaps something more public? You could roger me arsewise atop the bar at the Green Dragon, eh?" Swollen lips murmured every secret wish, until Sam's eyes narrowed with determined lust. "Tom Cotton would fancy watching you fuck me. I've noticed how he fairly worships your cock."

"No!" Sam took a great breath and shuddered. "He's not … he's not like _that_, just playful-like." With great restraint, Sam resisted confessing just how he knew this. He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that Frodo wouldn't ask. Frodo's teasing often grew quite painful when his jealousy was piqued, or worse, it led to frustrating sulks. Still, the idea of fucking Frodo in front of Tom Cotton _did_ have a certain appeal for Sam. The words boiled around in his mind, pulled strange strings in his guts as he relaxed into the fantasy, wove life through it, and grinned shamelessly. Frodo watched him and snorted, as if he had discovered something at once both pleasurable, and terrifically obvious.

"Good." Frodo sniffed. "He's ugly enough for only a lass to find appealing. Besides, he can't have you. You're _mine_." Frodo tucked his feet beneath his legs. "Give me your tongue."

Sam turned slightly, then did as he was asked. Frodo's hand circled Sam's broad length, and squeezed. As he fluttered his tongue in drowsy, warm spirals, Frodo flicked his thumb against Sam's moist tip. A quicksilver circuit burned from end to end inside Sam. He groaned and shook. His cock flinched and jumped beneath the busy thumb. A deep moan pulled raggedly from his chest. Frodo bore down, skimmed his thumbnail up Sam's foreskin. The reigns slipped senselessly from Sam's fingers. Frodo smiled. The pony took a few steps, and then stopped.

A hot, wet mouth plunged onto Sam's cock. Soft lips brushed against his fur as the tight sheath of Frodo's throat contracted, and spasmed. Frodo's breathing caught, then steadied as he adjusted himself. Sam instantly began to heave and shout. He drummed his heels franticly against the seat. Sensation overwhelmed control. The thought of fucking Frodo in front of the entire village, as if to satisfy some ancient, ceremonial rite, beggared Sam. Images of jealousy, awe and lust ripped his brain to shreds;Frodo writhing and shrieking at the stars, while the Valar looked on in mute approval. Tom Cotton gawking in amazement at the sheer power of the body twisting wildly upon the fertile soil. Sam drawing down the blessings of the moon into Frodo's body, while all looked on in wonder.

The pony whickered confusion, stamped her hoof. Frodo threw both arms across Sam's legs to stop him from thrusting against his hurt nose. Sam was simply too worked up to notice. He slammed his hips against the mouth that trapped him, felt his thoughts crawl, then fracture. The trap shook from side to side, as casks tipped and slid. Sam felt his orgasm build, even as he tried to force himself quiet. The image of Frodo's flushed, naked body arching up before the eyes of the Hobbiton fed the wild chorus already screaming inside Sam's brain. Frodo panicked, then backed up as Sam's entire body went ridged, then buckled. Warm, pungent seed spilled over Frodo's face, into his hair, up inside his nose.

From some far away place, Sam watched Frodo hawk and splutter. A deep – and serious – satisfaction spread through his body as he collapsed back into the seat. Frodo cleared his throat, reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly. Sally flicked her ears in consternation, neighed and tossed her head, wondering what all the fuss was about.

"Well now. That's quite a distinction you have going, my dear Samwise." Frodo rubbed at his jaw, licked at the wet spread across his lips. "I dare say taking care of you has proved an adventure all its own. Thank the stars I remembered my handkerchief."

Sam tipped back his head and laughed.

Quite a few hobbits were busy milling about the center of Bywater, chatting back and forth in a casual, passive manner that concealed their growing excitement. Finishing touches were being applied to gardens throughout the village. Astron-tide was a time for clearing away the old, and tidying up the new. Spring's first raw blossoms were considered sacred amongst most hobbits. A lush garden implied favor, blessing and wealth. For others it was a chance to show off. For Samwise and his family, it was a time of planning, and serious work. The local chapter of the Westfarthing Ladies Garden society would perform an informal survey of each garden in Bywater and Hobbiton. Those with the highest ratings would be cleared for entry in the Grand Forelithe Flower competition in Buckland, which was formally judged by the Shire Rose-Fancier's Guild.

Sam's sister Marigold waved to them from the top of the Hill, then ran to the trap. Sam sprang out, helped Frodo down, then caught his sister up in his arms. Marigold struggled and mewled until Sam let her go, being that she was far too old to play at silly games in public any longer. She adjusted her white pinafore and smiled beatifically at Frodo, who smiled back warmly. Marigold both loved and hated Frodo with equal vigor. Frodo was largely ignorant of her feelings, and wished to remain so.

"Dad's wanting you for tomorrow," she said to her brother with all the force of a younger sibling who knew everything (and shared nothing without first extracting a heavy price).

"Why?" Sam said as he hefted a cask from the trap. Frodo walked ahead and opened the green door of the smial.

"I dunno. He's up at the Ivy Bush tonight, and said he's wantin' you home come morning, is all. Ask him then." Marigold twisted her foot and grinned. "S'not _my_ business now, is it?"

"Then help me unload what you can_, pretty foots,_" Sam chuckled as Marigold winced at the baby-name.

She grabbed a rucksack full of clothes from the back of the trap and peeked inside. Sam tried to snatch it back, but she danced out of his reach. "I'll be seein' it all come wash day so I might as well have a good look at 'em now."

"Would you mind taking those with you, Miss Marigold?" Frodo said as he passed Sam on the way back to the trap.

Marigold started at the bruises on Frodo's face. From a distance they looked like shadows, but up close, the purplish-blue knuckle marks were clear and bright against his pale skin. Her eyes grew wide as she touched Frodo's cheek gingerly, then hissed for his pain.

"You're brother's work," Frodo winked as he undid a series of lashings. "He's quite wicked, you know."

"He most certainly is _not_, Mister Frodo Baggins!" She snatched her hand back defensively.

"No, he's not – but a certain lass from Sarn Ford certainly is."

"Oh, my word," Marigold murmured, but it was plain that she was fascinated by the unspoken tale the bruises implied.

Sam clucked his tongue, then went inside the smial. Frodo followed after. He looked back over his shoulder and frowned in mock consternation at Marigold, whose curiosity was running wild. She thought him insufferable; Smug, selfish and wicked – not at all like her brother, who she adored. After realizing nothing more was forthcoming, she got a grip on herself. She snatched up the sack full of clothes, then rushed off to Bagshot row.

After emptying the trap, Sam and Frodo headed back to Bywater to drop it off at the Will Whitfoot's stable along with a small cask of leaf. Mayor Whitfoot was away at his official residence in Michel Delving, so Frodo left his thanks and the cask with a stable lad who promised to pass on his regards. Sam decided to spend some time at the Green Dragon catching up on news until Frodo was done with his errands. Frodo left for the post office to deliver a healthy stack of mail, pick up his letters and look over a gift he had in mind for Sam. Several hobbits stopped to chat with Frodo on the way, each making especially certain not to mention the damage on his face. Frodo, polite as ever, made no effort to disturb them with detail; they'd have a fine time making up details of their own.

Inside the Green Dragon, Ted Sandyman, the miller's son, was lounging in the corner with Bertie Sackville and Falcon "Bender" Weaver. All three had their heads knotted closely together. No good was known to come from their gatherings; Sam eyed them warily as he made his way to a table where some of the Cotton boys were enjoying cool mugs of fresh cider.

Tom, Jolly and Nibs made room on their bench, while their sister Rosie made off to fetch Sam a mug of ripe cider from behind the bar. Sam chatted easily and drank the appley-tasting fizzy stuff, while the brothers caught him up on local doings.

"Da's gotten some fancy widget to help with planting," Tom said. "Daft great set of round slices of metal that turns the soil faster than a plow. 'Turns the chaff right under, quick-like, too. He says we'll get a bigger yield next year w'it."

"Beats grindin' in all that's left under with a single blade, that's for certain," Jolly added. "Can't says that's a chore I'll be missin', mate."

The far table came alive with dark laughter. Sam thought he saw Ted pointing at him.

"Hello?" Sam said. Ted sneered and turned back to the others.

Nibs ignored them, smiled at Sam. "Yer Gaffer's on about how lovely the garden up at Bag End looks to be."

"Yeah, you're set for Buckland," Jolly added. "But you always are. Mr. Frodo's lucky to have you about. 'Tis a dead certainty you'll ribbon again this year."

A high-pitched giggle sang out across the pub. Sam felt he was being stared at. When he looked to the other table, three sets of eyes skidded away.

Tom put his hand on Sam's arm. "They's rubbishy louts is all," he said quietly. "Yer gold, mate."

"Oh, them lot again." Nibs chewed on a laugh.

Jolly tipped back his mug, then said loudly, "There's virtue in silence, as well as a distinct lack of bashed-up arses."

"Not a one?" Tom asked incredulously.

"So goes the tale." Nibs cracked his knuckles. "Though you can't believe half the shite comes out o' the pub these days."

"I reckon there's too many wankers here busy tryin' out they 'da's britches," Jolly turned to glare at Bertie. "Would you agree?"

Bertie tipped up his mug, and then left with a sneer. Bender and Ted followed him. There was no fight worth a fight with the Cottons and Samwise both.

Nibs slapped Sam on the shoulder. "They never could take us on. Mind, all three would be hard pressed to get the drop on you."

"What's the sudden fascination w' me?" Sam looked at the door.

At the bar, Rosie was polishing up freshly washed mugs with a rag. A younger girl, bronze faced with sun and spirit, sat opposite her on a stool, eating an apple. Once Rosie was sure her brothers and Sam were the only hobbits in the pub, she leaned across the bar and kissed the girls lips with rakish bravado. The girl returned the kiss, and then laughed prettily. She bit deeply into the apple. Her teeth were small and very white against the natural dark hue of her lips. Rosie winked salaciously at Sam, daring him to find such a fine thing on his own.

Of course, Sam had – but this wasn't public knowledge. He _hoped_ it wasn't. The situation was altogether different, not to mention a study in bad form, class betrayal, and buggery; all three of which Sam was guilty of in spades. He never considered what other's thought of Frodo and himself. Some switch inside his mind cut off whenever he summoned up the courage to start. Aspects of the consequences were too terrible to linger on, while others were fraught with complications. This was all a bit much for Sam to take seriously, so he didn't, and that was that. The Cottons knew, because they knew everything there was to know about Samwise Gamgee. There was no avoiding it; they'd all learned to walk together, speak together, and eventually partner off with others then gossip about them together. There was a desperate tenderness in having no secrets that chaffed on occasion, but there was also a far deeper feeling of understanding. They all knew who they were and need not pretend otherwise, even when the need for privacy caused one to beat the shit out of the rest.

Tom Cotton sat back in his chair and tossed his head towards his sister. "We's just common folk, like that, an beneath the notice o' most."

"But Frodo ain't," Sam concluded miserably. This was his latest problem; the fact that Frodo was so visible now. It was disconcerting and exciting at the same time. Frodo was the new Laird of Hobbiton, new Master of Bag End – both titles adding much esteem to his previous invisible status. This also meant that others simply had to know his business, and Sam, naturally, was part and parcel of that.

"Aye," Tom agreed. "You're our mate, Sam."

"So's Mister Frodo. He's right decent folk," Nibs added.

"E'en if he's daft as a ferret down yer trousers." Jolly chuckled.

"What we means to says, is that we understands," Tom said seriously. "You lovely, silly, knob-twisting bastard."

Sam blushed. After all these years, the Cottons still had his back – even Tom. It was grand to be among good friends who understood the complexity of his life. Still, another part of him worried that something dark and difficult lay just ahead for Frodo and him. This could not go on – others would find out, and then what judgment would fall on Sam and his family?

The girl fluttered her lashes at Rosie. Rosie laughed, and the sound was far more willful than what was expected from a lass of her station. Rose was proud of herself, wore ribbons in her hair and danced with a reckless manner that was the envy of Hobbiton. Sam smiled as Rose flirted and spooned with the girl, feeling that at the very least, he wasn't alone in his perversity. Tom sang a filthy limerick about buggery (as if there were no more interesting thing to sing of), and would have gone on but for Jolly punching him in the ribs. Tom always made light of whatever he thought dulled by crushing sincerity. There were other reasons as well, but they need not be spoken then.

Sometime later, Sam spied Frodo outside the window of the pub. He was making his way through the little village, clutching a great stack of mail. He looked so much like Bilbo used to after visits to the post office; always fussed with papers and oddities stacked higher than he could easily manage. Frodo was happy, smiled easily, and the hobbits around him were polite and accommodating. Still, something had changed.

Sam could feel it in the eyes that rested upon Frodo's hurt nose, the manner in which heads ducked and shared private looks with one another as he passed them by balancing a ridiculous stack of envelopes, parchments and packages – some bound with ribbons bearing odd symbols, bits of silver, or brightly colored gems suspended by leather thongs. The hobbits surrounding Frodo wore two faces then; one filled with propriety and cheerfulness, and a darker one that scorned that which was not understood.

In an instant , Sam realized how much Bilbo's presence had shielded them. As an established elder whose manners were impeccable, Bilbo's standing among his peers was the very highest. Talk flowed like water around his short, fat, body, but never touched him for very long. Bilbo's character was too strong, even when illness stole his mind. His status commanded respect, and protected Frodo and Sam from the harsh scrutiny most hobbits reserved for individuals they considered odd.

Now that the village had accepted that Bilbo was not likely to return, for the first time, Frodo was being judged on his own merits. As he had no extraordinary virtue or faults that were immediately obvious, most appeared to be reserving opinion. Bertie, Ted and Bender weren't part of the core consciousness of the village, but did occupy a jealous spot near the fringe. While their collective observations were universally considered crude, some paid them more mind than they admitted. Suddenly, the Cotton's affections became clear; they were all trying to warn him. Sam thought about the Gaffer, what he might have overheard while he and Frodo were away, and shivered.

Through the window, Sam's eyes on brushed on Frodo's, and at once, a happy smile greeted him. Such a kind, loving puzzle was Frodo - it was a shame others did not see him as such. Frodo seemed to catch Sam's thoughts as he walked towards the entrance of the Green Dragon. The assorted parcels and letters tilted dangerously in his arms. When he grew near the doors, Frodo stopped. He looked at the hobbits milling about the village center and shrugged diffidently, waiting for someone to open the door.


End file.
